Love Is In The Air (I Think I'll Stay Inside)
by JustlikeWater
Summary: Dean can admit that he isn't the most 'emotionally fluent' person, and he's well aware that things are a little complicated with Cas, but at this point in his life, he's content to cram it all away and ignore it. However, after pissing off the Goddess of Love herself, Dean gets a push in the 'right direction' and life as he knows it changes in the most unexpected, wonderful ways.
1. Nice Boys Don't Kiss and Tell

**A/N: Hey guys! For those of you who have been subscribed for a while, here's a quick note: I will be posting a new chapter as soon as I finish editing/reworking the ones I've already posted. Just finished cleaning up chapter one! For everyone who's here for the first time, t****his story takes place anywhere after season 4 and will not include any mention of Soulless!Sam, God!Cas, Eve, Leviathan, or any other angsty crap the writers threw out way. This is a humor/romance casefic, so very minimal tears will be involved! Feedback would be wonderful, so make sure to leave a comment when you're done reading! :)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"Jesus, is every restaurant in this damn town healthy?" Dean snaps from behind the wheel, watching in dismay as yet another pastel-colored, vegan eatery disappears in the rearview mirror. "Where the hell are the burger joints?"

"I told you, Dean, you're not gonna find any junk food around here," Sam says, scrolling through a list of local diners on his phone. "Besides, I've been dying to try this place called Zen Choices. It's only about a mile from here and it's got four and half stars on Yelp!"

Dean scowls. "Sammy, on principal, I won't eat anywhere that has freaking _Zen _in the name. I gotta have my limits, man."

"Fine," Sam snorts. "But fair warning, there isn't another restaurant for about two hours."

"Then I'll stay true to who I am and starve."

"Yeah, alright, Dean."

There's about a minute of silence, before Sam sighs dramatically and leans his forehead against the window. "It's just a shame you'll be missing out, is all."

"Yeah, doubtful."

Sam shrugs. "I guess I just thought you'd be into this kind of thing…"

Dean looks at him askance. "And why's that?"

"Well, I mean, Zen Choices is only one of the top three most renowned bistros in America. All kinds of aspiring models and celebrated yoga instructors frequent there."

Dean unconsciously wets his bottom lip. "Yoga instructors?"

"Yeah, and yoga students too," Sam says nonchalantly. "Just a bunch of young, healthy girls eating fruit, doing stretches, you know, that kind of stuff."

Dean swallows hard. "I guess it wouldn't kill us to swing by, would it?"

* * *

Sam, as it turns out, is a lying piece of shit.

First of all, yoga instructors and models do _not_ hang out here. The hottest piece of ass for miles is a goddamn _poster_ of some earth-goddess chick that they have hanging on the wall by the entrance. Second of all, everyone else around here looks like they just smoked a bowl full of something potent, time-traveled back to the seventies, and rolled around in flower fields for a couple of hours.

Dean tries to book it the moment they step through the door, but Sam just flashes him the car keys and grins. Apparently, he can now add 'pickpocketing' to Sam's growing list of dick moves.

"Sorry, dude," Sam says smugly. "We're here to stay."

Fifteen minutes and countless lungfuls of patchouli later, Dean's sitting in a booth across from Samantha, who has apparently decided to order the frilliest salad on the freaking planet. Dean—for the sake of whatever shred of respect he still has for Sam—detaches himself from the situation and disappears behind the handwritten menu. Still, he manages to snag a few key phrases, like 'lavender accents,' 'sprinkled with pomegranate seeds,' and 'light vinaigrette drizzle'.

At this rate, the only question is whether they'll go dress shopping or shoe shopping after this.

Satisfied with Sam's order, the mellow-eyed blonde dude (who Dean is _positive_ has been smoking something in the backroom), turns to him with his little recycled-paper notepad and mini golf pencil.

"And what can I get you, brother?"

(Apparently the entire staff refers to everyone as brother or sister, because, _here at Zen Choices, you're family._)

Dean asks if they have anything with meat—he's pretty sure they don't, but it doesn't hurt to ask, right?—and instead of calmly replying "No, sorry, sir, we don't," the dude gasps in horror as if Dean just requested a human foot as his main course.

"_What_ did you just say?" he whispers.

"Uh, I asked if you have anything with meat," Dean says slowly. "You know, beef, chicken, stuff like that."

In response, the waiter ducks down and puts his mouth _thisfuckingclose_ to Dean's right ear, his body shamelessly breaching Dean's fairly small personal space bubble. "Brother, we do_ not_ use that word here."

At Dean's blank expression, he clarifies. "The M-word. You see, we serve only fruit, vegetable, and grain-based dishes. Never…never m-things"

Dean is in the midst of deciding whether or not it'd be worth it to bodily remove the guy from his vicinity—because apparently he doesn't believe in meat _or_ deodorant—when the dude suddenly straightens back up and regains his mellow disposition. Once again composed, he says, "However, I _can_ offer you a delicious selection of organic dishes, such as our okra-tofurkey sandwich slam. It's a customer favorite, actually."

"_Tofurkey?"_

"Tofu-turkey," Sam says helpfully, as he takes a sip of his jasmine-enhanced spring water.

"Uh, _no,"_ Dean replies succinctly. "I guess I'll take the most filling thing on the menu and a tall coke."

"Sorry, brother, we do not carry—"

Right, of course they don't. Though, Dean supposes he should consider himself lucky that the guy didn't think the mention of soda was offensive enough to reprimand; he isn't too eager to have Mr. Peace and Love in his personal space again anytime soon. "Fine, what do you carry?"

"Well, we have refreshing lemon-enhanced sparkling water, rose and jasmine infused iced teas, a range of citrus beverages, and spring water."

"I'll take the lemon sparkling thing." That's basically just fizzy lemonade, right? Pretty hard to screw that up, even here.

With a serene nod, the waiter floats back into the kitchen, humming something by the Beatles under his breath. Once he's gone, Dean turns to Sam and deadpans, "Alright, Sammy, why the hell are we here?"

"For lu—"

"Don't you dare call this rabbit food 'lunch', first of all," Dean snaps. "And second of all, you know what I mean. We're not really here for the girly salads and the lavender incense, are we?"

Sam makes a point of taking a long drink of water. "Sure we are," he says, wiping his mouth and deliberately not looking at Dean.

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and stares at him. "It's for a case, isn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Dean."

Dean takes a handful of complimentary banana chips out of the basket and crams them angrily into his mouth. "I don't feel like playing games right now, man," he says, around the mouthful of dehydrated fruit. "Just tell me why we're here and I'll shut up."

"Okay, fine," Sam says, holding his hands up in surrender. "I saw a newspaper clipping a few towns back, alright? Something about a bunch of random girls disappearing around here, no connections or patterns other than the fact that they're always female. Yesterday, it was an eighteen year old from the local high school, three days before, it was a college intern, and two days before_ that,_ it was the checkout girl at Whole Foods."

"And why didn't you tell me we were here on a case?"

Sam fidgets and suddenly finds the blue tablecloth fascinating. "It's just… man, you've been weird lately, alright? Ever since…" Sam stops, thinks better of it. "Uh, never mind, it isn't important. The point is—"

"Whoa," Dean halts, interrupting Sam. "Ever since _what_, man?"

Sam looks conflicted for a moment, caught between the urge to tell the truth and the desire to avoid conflict. Finally, Dean's hard stare gets the best of him, and he blurts out, "Ever since Cas stopped showing up all the time! You get—I don't know, Dean—you get _not good_ whenever Cas isn't around 24/7. You stop sleeping right, you snap at me every chance you get, and you're just generally unpleasant as hell!"

Dean's mouth actually drops open at that, because, seriously_: where the hell is this coming from?_ He is_ not_ miserable just because Cas isn't here.

Okay, _maybe_ it's harder to sleep at night because he's sort of worried about the angel's well-being (damn guy never bothers to check in, so how's Dean supposed to catch some Z's without knowing for sure that he's safe?) but it isn't as if he's losing his mind over it or anything. And, yeah, the lack of sleep and constant worry do make him a little snappish, and since he sees Sam 24/7, he's bound to take it out on him, but that doesn't mean that Cas's absence is affecting his emotional state!

And, alright, _yes_, he prays to the angel almost religiously, but that doesn't mean shit. Okay?!

Dean takes a few deep, calming breaths and then sagely replies, "I don't know what you're talking about, Sam."

"Really," Sam deadpans. "So you're going to tell me you_ don't_ pray to Cas every night and ask him to stop by all the time?"

Well, shit.

"Thin walls," Sam explains drily. "Listen, man, I don't know what's between you two, but the fact is, he's not here and it's making you miserable."

Dean clenches his jaw so hard that he can hear his molars grinding. "Shut up, Sam."

But Sam's face only gets softer, and he continues. "When you're around each other, you act…different. Happier, lighter. Both of you do, actually."

Dean's face grows uncomfortably warm. "Sam, I don't know what the hell you're insinuating, but—"

"Dean, I'm not _insinuating_ anything. Feel free to take all of my words at face-value. I'm just letting you know what I see—_and _what I hear. Or did you already forget what you told me on Wednesday?"

Dean plays dumb. "I don't know what you're referring to, man."

"You said 'I miss Cas'," Sam supplies bluntly. "Yeah, you were drunk off your ass, but I could tell you were being honest." Sam sighs and glances away. "But, anyway, the whole point of bringing this up was to explain that I didn't tell you about the kidnappings, because it would've been pretty insensitive for me to just drop another case in your lap, with all the shit you have going on."

"Right. Well, I hate to break it to you, Mr. Good Intentions, but we're still here and I'm still on the case."

"You weren't supposed to be, okay?" Sam insists. "I planned on letting you just do your own thing and then sneaking off to figure the case out myself."

Dean scowls and eats another handful of banana chips, his jaw aggressively crushing them to smithereens. "Swell job on that front, Sammy. Anyway, man, I don't need you to friggin' tiptoe around me, alright? When I said—_what I said_, I just meant," he searches for the words, for the real meaning behind what he'd told Sam two nights ago in his self-pitying, drunken haze, but he finds nothing but truth. "Okay, I meant what I said, I guess," he admits begrudgingly. "But it's nothing new. And I'm not the only one, okay? What, are you going to tell me you've never missed him before?"

"You know, Dean, yeah, I have," Sam tells him. "But I've never felt ashamed to admit it."

Dean is spared from responding when their food arrives a minute later.

* * *

Shit doesn't hit the fan until Sam is halfway through his colorful, flower-covered salad. He's in the motion of spearing a cherry tomato, when the bell of the front door chimes, followed by the frantic and decidedly un-Zen shriek of a wild-eyed brunette woman.

"_I knew it!_" she cries, stumbling through the door. "I told them, but they didn't listen, and now it's too late! Suzy's _gone."_

In no time, the hostess—her name is Lucy, Dean thinks—leaves her place at the podium and wraps the woman in tight hug. Soothingly, Lucy rubs her back and murmurs placations into her hair, her expression filled with empathy as the dark-haired woman continues to weep brokenly into her shoulder.

What Dean finds odd, though, is that this whole display is met with nothing more than a few side-glances and pointed coughs from the customers and staff.

He shoots Sam a look and they simultaneously rise from the table, Sam shelling out money to pay the bill, and Dean digging into his pocket for his FBI badge.

When they've made their way over to her, Sam asks, "Ma'am are you alright?" at the same time Dean says, "FBI. We need to talk."

She stares between them with wide, watery eyes. "W-who are you?"

"Agent Smith, ma'am," Dean says without hesitation, flipping his badge open. "And this is my partner, Agent Crow. We overheard you speaking with the hostess, and we have some questions we'd like you to answer, if you don't mind."

She sniffles and glances over at Lucy, as if looking for encouragement. Thankfully, the whole process is made easy when Lucy immediately nods and reassures her. "You should talk to them, Eleanor. They might be able to help."

The woman bites her lip anxiously. "I don't… I don't want to go without you," she says quietly, her eyes round and vulnerable. Before Lucy can say anything, Sam gently cuts in.

"We could do the questioning here, if you want, ma'am. That way you can still be around, um…"

"Lucy," the hostess contributes helpfully.

"Lucy." Sam nods. He turns his attention back to the woman. "Would that be alright?"

"Y-yes, I think so."

...

"What is your name, ma'am?" Dean asks, once the three of them are seated at a booth.

"Eleanor Watson."

She looks nervous and flighty, like she's ready to jump from her chair and leave at any moment. Dark violet pillows swell beneath her lower lashes, her cheeks look sunken in, and she has the tired, sallow complexion of someone who hasn't slept well in ages. In all honesty, she looks like she just crawled out of a mental asylum.

"So," Sam starts, his voice deliberately soft and careful. "Who is Suzy and what happened to her?"

Immediately, Eleanor's face crumples like tissue and she drops her face into her palms. She takes a few deep breaths before looking back up and regarding them with watery, bloodshot eyes. "Suzy is—_was_ my neighbor. She just graduated from Riverdale high school two days ago. She was so beautiful and intelligent; she had her whole future before her. But now…" she trails off. "Now she's gone and they won't find her, just like the rest."

Dean narrows his eyes. "And why do you say that?"

"Because," she replies shakily, "seven girls have gone missing in the past month and not a single one has been found. They haven't even recovered their b-bodies."

"What have the police been doing about these disappearances?" Sam asks.

"The police aren't doing _anything,"_ she hisses, her disposition abruptly shifting from mournful to furious. "I tried to tell them that something was wrong, that something bad was going to happen again, but they wouldn't listen! And now look what's happened: Suzy's been taken by something!"

Eleanor freezes and her eyes widen, as if she's said too much. She drops her gaze to her carefully folded, shaking hands. Quietly, she corrects herself. "I meant, someone, of course. _Someone_ took Suzy."

Sam glances at Dean from the corner of his eye, silently confirming that there is definitely something weird going down around here; clearly, Eleanor is holding back information. For the moment, however, Dean glosses over it and silently tells Sam to do the same.

"Now, do you know the last place Suzy was before she was taken?"

Eleanor shakes her head. "No," she replies miserably. "They only officially announced her kidnapping this morning, even though her parents say she went missing somewhere around eleven pm yesterday."

"What about the other victims, Eleanor? Did they know each other or share a connection of some sort?" Sam questions.

"Not that I know of. Suzy is the only victim that I knew personally. As for a connection…well, the _police _decided the kidnappings were random."

Sam is about to ask her something else, but Dean stops him with a raised hand. There's something about the way she spoke about the kidnappings being random: something bitter and contradictory.

Dean leans in and lowers his voice. "And what do _you_ think happened?"

She swallows and glances away nervously, her jaw flexing out of either anxiety or agitation. Maybe both. But, to Dean's surprise, when she finally looks back at them, her gaze is unwavering and steady—almost _too_ steady, in fact. When she speaks, the words sound smooth, innocuous, and, more importantly,_ rehearsed_.

"I don't know, Agent. As I said, there doesn't seem to be a connection."

Dean doesn't believe her for a second—and, clearly, neither does Sam—but he can already tell that she won't be spilling the truth any time soon, so he decides to ease up for now.

"Thank you for your time, Eleanor," Dean says. "Here's our numbers. Call us if you can think of anything else."

The two of them watch as she nervously swipes up the paper and flees the booth, her eyes resolutely downcast. Once she's gone, Sam slides out of his chair and announces, "Well, that was the biggest load of crap I've ever heard. She clearly knows something."

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "Listen, why don't you head to that motel a few blocks down and get us a room? Start looking into the details of the kidnappings. I'm gonna stick around and see what else I can figure out."

Sam nods. "Alright, sounds good."

"Oh yeah, and Sam?"

"What?"

Dean sticks out his hand. "Give me my damn car keys back."

Sam's expression turns incredulous. "Wait, so I'm just supposed to walk four blocks in ninety-degree weather in a _suit_? Seriously?"

"Baby is a privilege, not an entitlement," Dean snaps, tugging his keys out of Sam's giant mitts. "It's not even that far, man, quit complaining. I'm sure the motel's got AC."

"Fine," Sam grumbles. "But you better make it up to me somehow. And it better be good."

"Yeah, yeah, we'll take that Disneyland trip one of these days, Sammy," Dean says, rolling his eyes.

* * *

Ten minutes after Sam has embarked on his four block-long journey, Dean heads to the front to speak with Lucy. She's busy showing a couple to their table, so Dean leans against the hostess stand and waits. Even after talking with Eleanor, Dean still isn't sure why everyone in the restaurant seemed so nonchalant about her passionate—not to mention,_ loud_—display at the hostess's stand. Are the people around here really that mellow and unfazed?

While he waits, he sends a quick text to Sam: _**About to talk w/ Lucy. Keep up the research &amp; tell me what you find. DW **_

_**Can't do research yet, still walking. Might die from heat stroke. SW**_

Dean's halfway through typing 'you're a drama queen,' when his phone buzzes again.

_**I swear, if I sweat another drop, I'm gonna pass out. SW**_

And again.

_**I can't believe your car has priority over my health. SW**_

And _again._

_**My gravestone will say: 'hope it was worth it, Dean'. SW**_

Thankfully, Sam reaches the motel before his pity-party can go on much longer (_**Yes! The room has AC! SW**_) and Dean gladly pockets his blissfully silent phone.

Once Lucy finishes seating the customers, she notices him waiting by the podium and immediately rushes over. In one anxious breath, she says, "I saw Ellie leave, did she tell you everything? Do you think you'll be able to help?"

Dean gives her his most disarming smile. "Yeah, we definitely can. But first, I'm gonna need more details. Mind if I ask you some questions?"

She widens her eyes and bobs her head eagerly. "Of course, I'll help in any way I can. Give me a minute to let Karen know that I'm taking off a little early. Be right back!"

…

A little later, Dean's sitting at one of the restaurant's outdoor tables, questioning Lucy.

"So, what is your relationship with Eleanor like?"

Lucy's gaze falls to the table and her cheeks flush. "Well, Ellie and I dated a few years ago, back when we were in college, but we decided it wasn't working and split. We broke up on really good terms, though, and we've been insanely close ever since. She's my best friend."

Dean nods. "Alright. Now, Eleanor already explained what happened to Suzy, so there's no need to recount that, but what I'm wondering is why no one seemed surprised at her—_display_ earlier. Most folks didn't even bat an eye."

At that, a sad, tired look colors her features. "Well, it started a few weeks ago. The kidnappings, I mean. Most of us were just scared, but Ellie…Ellie was convinced that something was stealing the girls. Something, um, _unnatural_."

Dean straightens up at this new piece of information. "Something unnatural? Eleanor didn't mention anything like that."

Lucy sighs and runs a hand through her messy, blonde hair. "Yeah. Well, I don't blame her for not saying anything. Her theory is exactly why no one in this town takes her seriously anymore. Two weeks ago, she tried to tell the local police what she thought was responsible for the kidnappings, but they just sent her home and warned her not to come back and waste their time. Word got around, and before I knew it, the whole town had her pegged as some kind of raving lunatic. See, something real bad happened to her last year, and most folks figured this whole 'episode' was just her finally losing it."

Interesting. "Two questions: what happened last year, and what did she think was responsible for the kidnappings?"

"Her mother died," Lucy says quietly. "She was the only family Ellie had left. Things got hard for her—real hard. She rarely slept or ate, and the only people she spoke to were me and a few of her neighbors. For months, she immersed herself in books on mythology and all kinds of old religious stuff. I think it comforted her. And, um, as for her theory…she thought—she thought that," Lucy stops and looks Dean straight in the eye. "Agent Smith, before I tell you, please promise me you won't say that she's crazy for thinking this. I've heard it enough to last a lifetime."

Dean nods solemnly. "Promise."

"Okay," Lucy exhales. "Well, Eleanor thought that Venus, the roman Goddess, was kidnapping the girls."

* * *

As Dean makes his way into the parking lot, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and calls Sam.

"Did you get any new info?"

"Hi to you too, Sammy. And yeah, I did. What did you find with the research?"

"Well, I found a huge connection between the victims: they were all virgins and under eighteen. Also, not too long ago, there were similar kidnappings a few towns over, which lasted pretty regularly for about a month before stopping entirely. Here, trouble started a few weeks ago, and since whatever it is clearly doesn't intend to stick around, we need to act fast."

Dean tiredly rubs his temples. "Okay, so what do you think this is, man? What's stealing the girls?"

"Dragon maybe?" Sam guesses. "I mean, nabbing virgins is kind of their thing."

Dean is a little reluctant to bring up someone else's idea—mostly because it's probably way off—but he figures it can't hurt. "Well, actually, Lucy told me something that was kind of interesting. See, it turns out Eleanor _was_ holding back when we spoke to her. Apparently she had a theory on what was kidnapping the girls."

"Well, go on, Dean, no need to build suspense."

"_Fine._ She thought that Venus, the roman goddess, was stealing virgins."

There's a long pause on the other end and Dean wonders if the idea was so ridiculous that it actually rendered Sam speechless. Right when he's about to chuckle and dismiss it, his brother surprises him by saying, "That…might be correct, Dean." Then, more to himself, "How did I not think of that?"

Dean raises his eyebrows, thoroughly impressed that a civilian managed to pinpoint a case so accurately. "There, there, Mr. Stanford Prelaw, don't feel too bad. Apparently this chick was completely obsessed with mythology for the better part of a year, so it's no surprise that she made the connection so quickly."

"Well, kudos to her, because I think she's right," Sam says. "In fact, it actually makes a disturbing amount of sense. A lot of these accounts said that the girls went missing sometime late at night, and although the reports don't specify where the girls were last seen, there's this really shady place called—get this—'Love and Beauty', which is within walking distance of each of their houses. All of them passed it at some point, which means—"

"That there's a goddess holed up in there, grabbing girls right off the sidewalk," Dean finishes. "Got it. So now the only problem is, how do we kill her?"

Sam scoffs at the apparently obvious answer. "With weapons forged in Olympus, of course. That's how you kill Gods." The _'duh'_ is very heavily implied.

"Swell," Dean chirps. "I'll just stop at the nearest Gas-n-Sip and pick one up! I hear weapons forged on top of _Mount-freaking-Olympus_ are on sale this time of year!"

"Easy with the sarcasm, Dean, your sharp wit is stabbing me through the phone."

"Bitch," Dean grumbles, digging into his pockets for his keys.

"Jerk," Sam replies cheerily. "Now, I'm going to start researching _alternate_ ways to kill the goddess, so why don't you head back to the motel and help out?" As an afterthought, he adds, "Oh, and on your way, could you pick up some granola bars? And grape juice?"

Dean snorts. "What are you? _Five?"_

Primly, Sam replies, "No, I'm a twenty-five year old _man _with a serious grape juice craving, alright? And granola bars are good for protein and energy. In fact, the oats and grains in most granola bars are-"

"Dear _god_," Dean interrupts with a groan. "I did _not _ask for a lecture on the friggin food pyramid, alright, Sammy? I'll get your damn juice and squirrel food, calm down."

"Good," Sam says, sounding pleased.

With that, Dean tucks his phone back into his pocket and starts the Impala, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the busy road.

* * *

"No way," Dean says, sitting up in his chair to stare at Sam. "_That's_ her kryptonite? A freaking _kiss?" _

They're currently holed up in their ratty little motel room—which, to its credit, isn't the worst that they've seen—while Sam recounts his findings to Dean. Sam, being the genius-researcher that he is (Sam's words, not Dean's), managed to dredge up lore on Venus's 'Achilles heel', which, oddly enough, turned out to be something as innocuous a _kiss_.

"You're telling me," Dean repeats slowly, "that to kill Venus, all we gotta do is _kiss_ her?Dude, are you on Wikipedia or something?"

Sam scowls, offended that his credibility as a researcher is being questioned. "No, Dean, I'm not on Wikipedia. I found it in one of those roman mythology books, which cross-referenced an old college textbook, and then I double checked my information by looking it up on some very credible sites. Trust me, Dean, it's legit."

Dean furrows his brow, still unable to completely wrap his mind around the concept. "Read me the exact quote."

Sam rifles through the pile of books, before producing one with thick, ancient-looking binding. He searches for the correct page, then plants his index finger on a block of text. "'The great Goddess Venus, dually known as Aphrodite in Greek mythology, is an immortal embodiment and protector of all matters of love, beauty, and fertility, and can only be destroyed by a kiss of ill intention. Only one with the true desire to murder the goddess will prevail.' Then, in another book it references, it says that you need 'a kiss of grim intention and the_ mortem permanentem _incantation' in order to gank her."

"More-tem perma_-what?"_

"It's Latin. It basically translates into 'the permanent death'. I had to look pretty deep for the incantation itself, but after a few hours, I managed to dig it up. I also found a spell that'll bind her in the meantime, so that she won't, you know, kill us the moment she sees us."

Dean rubs his hands together, eager to get this show on the road. "Alright, Sammy, let's go catch us a goddess!"

* * *

When Sam told Dean about the process of killing Venus_, _Dean was pretty excited; the two of them live in a world where stabbing, burning, and beheading are pretty much the only ways to kill freaky monsters, so it was pretty refreshing to hear that, for once, all he has to do to save the day is make out with a hot chick.

So, you can imagine Dean's disappointment when, ten seconds after completing the goddess's summoning spell, a hideous ogre-witch pops up in the exact spot he was expecting a beautiful woman to appear.

"What the_ hell_?" Dean squawks. The shock is almost enough to make him drop his knife. Then, the troll-beast-witch creature turns to face him, giving Dean a whole eyeful of the goddess in all her hunchbacked glory.

Venus is, in short, horrifying. She vaguely resembles the creepy crossing guard who worked at one of Dean's many elementary schools, only far uglier, about a hundred years older, and reeking very strongly of cabbage. The Goddess's teeth—though Dean is reluctant to refer to her as a goddess, since 'hag' seems to be the more fitting description—are jagged points in varying shades of yellow, all lined up in crooked rows like candy corn. Her head is as bald as a boiled egg, with only a few sparse wisps of hair to conceal the shining grey dome of her scalp. The part of Dean's mind that is _not_ numb with horror, surmises that perhaps at one point in her life—back when dinosaurs wandered, probably—she had decent facial features, as there is the barest hint of beauty hiding beneath her currently hideous exterior. But time has apparently been unkind, because any trace of loveliness is buried miles beneath shriveled lips, cataract eyes, and translucent skin.

She grins and it's ten shades of ghoulish mixed with fifty pounds of _freaky as hell_. "Now, that's no way to welcome a Goddess, is it?" Her voice is slow and sweet like honey, and Dean can describe it as nothing other than _sexy_—which makes the whole situation a million times creepier, since that throaty voice is currently spilling from the cracked, twisted lips of a freaking _mountain troll_.

Sam recovers first, but just barely. "You're Venus?"

She raises a twisted brow, clearly amused. "Yes. I assume the books and paintings have depicted me as slightly more—youthful?"

"A bit, yeah," Sam mutters, around a cough.

"Well, therein lies the problem, darling. You see, that is why I had to kill those pretty little virgins—for their lovely, striking youth." She sighs dreamily. "Oh they were just so bright and beautiful, like roses waiting to be plucked and turned to perfume."

Sam glowers and tightens his grip on the knife.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, dear, it is you faithless humans who have forced this life upon me! I have no followers, nor do many of my brothers and sisters, and because of my lack of godliness, I am forced to endure human nuisances such as _age_. I am older than one can possibly contemplate and it clearly shows." She sweeps a hand down the lumpy shape of her figure. "But, one little vial of virgin's blood and voila! Young and beautiful once more."

Sam glares at her, his eyes bright with anger. "So that's why you've been killing all those women? For _vanity?"_

Venus laughs airily. "Darling, do not claim to understand the importance of beauty. We women must go to great lengths in order to achieve perfection, whereas men can dress as sloppy as they please and behave like beasts, and _still_ somehow expect the world to consider them desirable."

Dean finally drags his eyes away from a particularly outstanding boil on the edge of her nose and clears his throat. "Listen up, wicked witch of the west," he snaps, determined to keep his cool despite the overwhelming urge to puke. "I don't need to hear you bitch and moan about how you were hit with the ugly stick, okay? We're here to take care of business and put an end to your freaky, virgin-killing spree, not listen to you complain. This ain't a 'Dear Abby' column."

At Dean's voice, the goddess's eyes light up with intrigue. Immediately, she turns away from Sam and looks at Dean as if she's seeing him for the first time. "You're rather pretty, Dean Winchester," she muses. "Beneath all that masculine gusto, you've got quite delicate features." Her eyes rake appreciatively over his eyes, his mouth. "A big bad hunter with emerald eyes and feminine lips? Apparently, darling, things are not as they seem with you." She smirks. "And I'm sure your internal situation is similar, in that regard."

Dean shifts uncomfortably. He opens his mouth to say something snarky, but she patiently raises her finger to silence him, and for some reason, the words die in his throat.

Venus eyes him appraisingly, as if studying a fine painting. "Not only are you physically lovely, but you smell_ divine_ as well."

"Old Spice," Dean supplies drily. "Great stuff."

"No, I don't mean your _human _smell; all of you hairless apes smell horrid. I am of course referring to the smell of your _soul_, Dean. It has the smell of someone in love."

Hot, embarrassed blush spreads across his neck. Gruffly, he says, "I don't know what the hell you're talking about." _Because he doesn't, okay?_ However, out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sammy narrowing his eyes in confusion and preparing to open his big mouth and start asking questions, so to cut off that possibility, Dean says, "Either way, you better get a good whiff, Venus, because it won't be long before you're just a pile of ash."

Venus sighs long-sufferingly and glances about the empty warehouse. "So I suppose you've taken the correct measures to trap me here, then?"

"Yup," he says jauntily. "Just a pinch of faerie dust, fool's gold, shredded rose petal, saliva of an infant, and a virgin's left wrist bone. No biggie."

She examines the black crescents of dirt beneath her nails and chuckles. "Mm, yes, that's all grand, but I'm assuming that wrist bone was not fresh?"

Dean fidgets and adjusts his grip on the knife. "Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Doesn't matter, the spell didn't specify. It'll still hold you."

Venus just laughs. "Yes, it'll definitely hold me, but for how long? I must say, boys, killing a virgin probably would have been wiser. Who knows how long that shoddy corpse's bone will hold? As pretty as you two darlings are, as soon as this trap breaks, I will kill you without a second thought." She punctuates the statement with a sweet smile that curdles Dean's insides. "Until then, I suppose you've also devised some plot to destroy me? Or—as you so eloquently phrased it, Dean—'turn me to a pile of ash'?"

Sam straightens his shoulders and levels the goddess with a confident look. "Yeah, actually we have. And since you can't move from that spot, it should be pretty easy, too." Nothing grand follows this statement, so she waits a few beats in bored silence, glancing from Dean to Sam and then back at her nails.

Eventually, Sam clears his throat and cuts his eyes at Dean, making a not-so-subtle _'go on'_ gesture with his knife-free hand.

It then occurs to Dean that he's supposed to kiss her.

On the _mouth._

With_ his_ mouth.

"No fucking way," he pronounces, shaking his head and backing up. "There's got to be another way, and if there isn't, then you go right ahead and do it your damn self."

"Dean—"

"Don't you 'Dean' me. I'm not doing it, Sam."

"C'mon, dude, really? You've beheaded vamps and practically waded through monster guts, yet you choose_ this_ to be squeamish about?"

"We _are_ looking at the same pair of lips, right? The ones that resemble dehydrated apricots? _Fuck_ no."

Venus watches the exchange with amusement. "You Winchesters sure do know how to flatter a girl." She looks to Dean and smirks. "Tell you what, sugar, if you act real gentlemanly I won't use tongue."

In response, Dean's entire body cringes back in repulsion. Yeah—that's it, there's no fucking way he's putting his mouth anywhere near the vicinity of hers. Sam can go right to hell.

"Dean, we need to kill her. You have to do this."

"No_, you_ kiss her and _I'll _read the incantation."

"You don't even know it! It has to be read in the correct cadence otherwise it won't work," Sam insists. And unlike at the restaurant, he can tell Sam is telling the truth.

"Maybe you _should_ be the one to kiss me, Sam," she suggests innocently. "Being that Dean's heart is already taken and all."

That same spike of white-hot embarrassment makes its way up his spine like an electric jolt. He's so eager for Venus to just shut the hell up that kissing her suddenly doesn't seem so bad. "Get that damned spell book out," he says to Sam. "I'm going in."

Venus chuckles as he makes his way over to her. "Dean, love, I must warn you, kissing me has some interesting side-effects that your little book may have failed to mention."

He swallows. "Like?"

She grins, putting her crumbling, yellow teeth on full display. "I'm not sure, hot stuff, it's been centuries since someone's attempted it. We'll just have to wait and see, won't we?"

He pauses and clenches his fists at his sides, resolution wavering. "Sammy," he barks, without taking his eyes from the goddess. "What the hell's she talking about?"

Dean can't tell because he isn't looking, but he's willing to bet half of his nonexistent life savings that Sam is blinking and fidgeting nervously right now. "I don't know, man. The, uh, lore on Venus was kinda vague. I'm pretty sure you'll be fine though!" he finishes optimistically.

"_Pretty sure?"_ Dean cries, tearing his eyes away from Venus to gawk at his brother. "Gee, Sammy, well now that you're _pretty sure_ this'll work, I guess I'm totally up for risking my ass!"

"Dean—"

"Just…just tell me that you at least read every possible thing you could. Hell, man, fake confidence if you have to." Because, yeah, Dean would rather eat his shoe than lock lips with the creature from the black lagoon, but shit needs to get done and since Sam has to read the stupid spell, it looks like this one is resting entirely on Dean's shoulders.

"Dude I scoured every nook and cranny for info on her, okay? I'm almost certain she's just bluffing."

Venus, meanwhile, has her chin cupped in her hand, wearing an expression Dean can only call 'smug as motherfucking hell'. "Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. Who knows, hon? I will say, though, I'm quite eager to see what that hot little mouth of yours tastes like." Then, she licks her chapped, twisted lips and makes a noise in the back of her throat that Dean thinks_ might_ be a purr.

"Sam, you're going to owe me for years to come," he chokes out, as he takes a few wooden steps forward. _"Years."_

"Got it," Sam promises, holding the book open. "The chant's ready when you are, Dean."

"I don't bite," Venus says innocently, then smirks and cocks her head. "Unless of course you're into that…"

Dean gulps down his nausea and steps even closer. _Think of pretty girls, girls without moles, girls with white teeth and full heads of hair…_

Dean's last thought is something along the lines of '_fuck Sam, fuck this curse, fuck Venus' _and then without further ado, he presses his mouth fully against the goddess's.

He has the chance to notice the smirking curve of her upper lip and decide that shit is about to go horribly wrong, before something pinches between his shoulder blades and bright red lights flood the backs of his eyelids. He can hear Sam shouting his name and the Goddess laughing, but there's no time to pinpoint exactly what the hell is going on, because in the next moment, a blinding shaft of light swallows the room and unconsciousness quickly claims him.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone! I'd love to hear what you think, feedback and comments are food for my writer soul :)**


	2. Love at First Bite

When Dean wakes up and sees that his jacket and hands are covered in glitter, his first thought is that he really needs to stop blacking out in strip clubs. At this point, it's just getting ridiculous.

Then, all at once, memories slam into him like a truck and he realizes he's definitely _not _in a strip club right now. No, instead he's sprawled across the floor of an abandoned warehouse, covered in some weird, shiny powder, with Sam staring down at him in concern literally two inches from his face.

"Dean? Dean!" Sam is grabbing the sides of his head in those ridiculously huge paws of his, frantically shouting his name. "Dude! Can you hear me?"

"Yes! Now let _go_!" Dean snaps, twisting himself out of Sam's clutches. "Calm down, will you? I'm fine."

"Fine? _Fine?"_ Sam cries, looking at Dean as if he's just made the understatement of the century. "Dude, after I finished the chant and you kissed Venus, she started laughing and then freaking _exploded_ in this huge cloud of—of," Sam pauses to assess the substance in question, which isn't too difficult since it's covering every inch of Dean's body. "Of glitter," he finishes, sounding somewhat bemused. "But right before she blew up, she grabbed your shoulder or back or something, and there was this huge bang, then you collapsed to the floor like a ragdoll."

Again: _weird_. But, before he submits to the same panic-attack that Sam is currently experiencing, he decides to inspect himself for damage first.

"Chill out for a sec, Sammy," Dean placates. He extends his arm and watches, amused, as Sam follows the movement like a hawk. He does the same with his legs, fingers, neck, and toes. After flexing every voluntary muscle and mentally reviewing all possible symptoms of fatal afflictions—and making sure he has none of them—Dean feels that he can safely say he is _fine_.

"I'm good, and the hag is dead." Dean says, standing. "What do you say we get the hell out of here?"

Sam looks around the warehouse warily, as if Venus is still lurking somewhere amongst the shadows. "Yeah, I guess."

* * *

Despite the thorough self-checkup, Sam spends the ride back to motel fretting over Dean like a mother hen.

"Dean, are you_ sure_ you feel okay?" Sam asks for the sixth time in as many minutes, furrowing his brow until that concerned "L" –shaped crease appears on his forehead.

"Dude," Dean grits out, tightening his grip on the wheel. "I'm fine, okay? Like I told you: I kissed her, saw a freaky lightshow, passed out, and then woke up without a scratch. No worries, Sammy, we ganked her and I managed to escape unscathed. We should be celebrating, alright?"

There's a long, pregnant pause.

"I don't know, Dean," Sam says eventually. "I know it_ looked_ like she died—she, like, disappeared into smoke and all that—but I have a weird feeling that she _didn't._ Die, I mean."

Now, there are two things you really don't wanna tell a guy who just kissed a hag: Firstly, that there is photographic evidence, and secondly, _that it was in vain._

"Are you telling me," Dean says slowly, "that I put my mouth on that _creature_ for nothing?"

The lack of an immediate reply is answer enough. "Well, great!" Dean chirps in mock cheerfulness. "This is just peachy, isn't it? Any other disgusting, pointless things you think I should do, Sam? Go to third base with a troll? Bed an ogre?"

"Dean—"

"Sam," Dean snaps, punctuating the word with a scowl in order to deter any possible interruption. "You_ said_ it would kill her. You did your research, man! You were Mr. Confidence like two hours ago, but now that we've actually done the deed, you're suddenly having doubts? I don't freaking get it!"

"You didn't see her 'die', okay, Dean? I did." Sam retorts. "The whole thing was almost _too_ clean. There were no guts or bits of flesh, or even a clump of hair. She just _disappeared _in a cloud of freaking _glittery smoke_, as if it were some kind of magic trick, so excuse me for having my doubts!"

"I dunno, Sam!" Dean cries. "Maybe that's just how she looks when she freaking dies!"

"Dean, she laughed right before we 'killed' her. Plus, remember that whole thing about the wrist bone? What if she was right? What if it wasn't strong enough to hold her, and she managed to teleport out of there at the last second because the binding spell didn't completely work?"

Dean sighs and briefly toys with the idea of ending this conversation altogether—because goddamn, this is really spiking his blood pressure—but, unfortunately, they_ have_ to deal with this right now, since there is apparently a decent chance that Venus is still on the loose.

"Fine. Okay," Dean mutters, eyes fixed on the road. "When we get back to the motel we'll do some research and figure this out, alright?"

"Sounds good," Sam agrees.

"Alright. Until then, can we just, you know, not talk about this? If you don't mind, I'd like to drown my disgust in Zeppelin."

Before Sam can throw a fit over the fact that they've heard this tape 'a million times already,' he cranks the volume up to max and loudly sings along to Stairway to Heaven.

...

By the time they've reached the motel, Dean is still pretty peeved about the kiss, but after a solid twenty minutes of good music and _not talking about Venus_, his fury is slowly returning to an acceptable level. As he swings the door of the impala shut and pockets his keys, humming something tuneless and chipper under his breath, he starts to think that maybe, just maybe, this day isn't complete shit after all.

But then, because the universe hates him—or, at the very least, wants to push him to his absolute limit—the moment he sets foot in the lobby, some anxious, jittery dude runs into him and spills coffee all down the front of his shirt. And not just any shirt, either: his _favorite _shirt. The one he picked up a few years back, with the ACDC logo on the front.

"Christ, oh jeez, oh man, I'm so sorry," the guy stutters, holding the half-empty cup in one hand and nervously avoiding Dean's eyes. "M-maybe I can help get it out, I have one of those fancy, uh, stain-removal kit things, right in my back pocket, I think. One sec—" And then, in the process of retrieving the 'stain removal thing', the man somehow manages to spill even more coffee on Dean's shirt.

"_Dude!"_ Dean shouts, jumping backwards, as hot liquid drips from the hem of the shirt, soaking uncomfortably into his skin. "_What the hell?"_

Now, the guy looks positively mortified. "Oh my gosh, my goodness gracious, I-I am so, so sorry, is there anything that I can do to, uh, help?"

"Yeah!" Dean barks. "Stay the hell away from me!"

"Dean," Sam starts, in his diplomatic 'now let's be reasonable' voice.

Dean whips around and points a finger right into Sam's chest. _"No,"_ he bites. Because this is_ really_ not the time for a lecture on manners and public behavior. Then, he turns back to the dude, who is now shaking like a hairless Chihuahua and snaps, "And _you:_ keep your damn coffee in your cup! It's not that hard, man!"

With that, he turns on his heel and practically stomps down the hall to their room, too angry to notice he's leaving puddles of coffee in his wake.

...

In the room, Dean wastes no time in tugging his jacket off and peeling the sticky, latte-smelling shirt from his torso. He hears Sam walk in and pointedly turns around to face the wall; he's still pissed as hell and the last thing he wants to see is Sam's apologetic, glossy-eyed expression. Instead, he stubbornly focuses on the splintered plaster before him.

He's just managed to get the shirt over his head, when he hears Sam say, "Whoa. Uh, Dean?" in the voice he uses whenever he's about to say something he knows Dean won't like.

_What now?_

"Yeah, Sam?" he says testily.

"Dean, okay, don't freak out, but there's something on your back. It almost looks like a—a huge spider bite or something."

"A spider bite?" Dean asks, twirling uselessly in circles in order to see the bite for himself. "How big? I can't feel anything."

Sam grabs his shoulder to stop him and leans in to get a closer look. "Holy shit, dude," he mutters, sounding simultaneously disgusted and fascinated. "Something in there is _moving_."

"WHAT?"

Sam fucking _knows_ how Dean feels about that whole _'some weird shit is living in your skin and probably laying eggs as we speak'—_thing, ever since they watched _Flesh Hosts_ two summers back. With no regard for his dignity, Dean begins jumping around and bending his arms back to scrabble at the supposed area of the _egg sack_—or whatever the fuck it is.

"Get it out, man!" he shrieks. "Carve it out of me with a damn knife if you have to, _just get it out!"_

"Dean! Calm the hell down," Sam insists, pressing a hand to his shoulder. "You might scare it!"

Without missing a beat, Dean turns and slugs him in the arm.

"Just sit tight for minute while I do some research, alright?" Sam says, once he's stopped snickering long enough to form a sentence. He pulls out his laptop and starts typing. "I'll do a few quick searches and see if anything matches that…_thing _on your back."

"Fine."

In the meantime, Dean sits ram-rod straight on the edge of his bed and tries not to move an inch.

Aside from Dean nervously tapping his foot, the only sounds in the motel room are Sam's typing and his occasional 'hm' of consideration. Even though Dean knows he's probably only torturing himself by doing this, he can't stop imagining what the thing on his back must look like. He can't stop imagining that, right between his shoulder blades, there is an egg-sized pustule with a little fetus-shaped alien-bug floating around in clear liquid. He can't stop thinking about the fact that it has the potential to squirm too hard and burst free, like some disgusting rendition of birth. He can't stop thinking about the damn thing in general, and it's starting to make him nauseas.

"Sam."

"Hold on, Dean, I'm reading."

"Dude, at least tell me what color it is."

Sam stops typing and looks up at him. "Why the hell do you want to know that? Whatever answer I give is only gonna make it even worse."

"Come on, man. I have a fucking _creature_ living on my back—the least I deserve is a description."

Sam rolls his eyes and goes back to typing. "Fine. It was red, shaped like an egg, and about the size of a half-dollar. The outside looked clear, like pink-tinted Saran wrap or something, and the uh, _creature_ itself just looked like the silhouette of a beetle. Happy?"

"No." Dean says miserably, dropping his head into his hands.

After a long, long time—ten minutes feels like a century when you have a freaking _alien_ on your back—Sam finally glances up from his laptop. "Well," he says slowly, "according to its size, shape, and uh_ contents_, it's a 'love bug.'"

"A _what_?"

"Yup. A love bug. Apparently one of Venus's favorite go-to curses."

"You're telling me that that crazy bitch did this to me?" he growls. "If she isn't already dead, I'm gonna freaking _kill her."_

Sam purses his lips, but makes no comment. Instead he just keeps explaining. "According to this, it 'burrows itself into the host's skin' and makes that person feel a 'dramatic increase in affection', especially towards the 'love of their life'."

Dean swallows uncomfortably. "Okay and what do the recorded cases say?"

"So get this: back in the days when this kind of thing happened a lot, the people who were bitten almost always ended up with their 'true love'—with the exception of unrequited loves, of course—and they tended to act super lovey-dovey with anyone they felt even remotely fond of." Sam glances up with a crooked smile. "Basically, this spell is going to rid you of your terrible case of emotional constipation. You're going to become the most affectionate dude on the planet, Dean."

Dean grits his teeth and swallows the urge to punch Sam right in his smug, bitchy face. Three calming breaths later, the desire to inflict physical violence ebbs away, and Dean replies, "I don't feel different, though. Maybe I'm immune to it?" He wonders if the hope in his voice is too obvious.

"Sorry, man," Sam says, his expression melting into genuine sympathy. "The effects don't kick in immediately. For some people it takes five minutes, but for others, five days. It also says that not all people were affected by the curse in the same way—as in, not everyone became a love-struck sap. Unfortunately it doesn't specify what_ did_ happen to them. We'll just have to wait and see I guess."

"Wait and see," Dean repeats numbly, because _waiting and seeing_ are probably his least favorite things on the planet. He's the kind of guy who wants shit to go down _now_, so that they can barrel into the situation and deal with it head-on. He hates _suspense, _especially since, in this case, he is_ literally_ counting down the last few minutes—or days—of his sanity.

Also, there's a fucking _beetle _swimming around in a huge blister-pod on his back, so that isn't really doing wonders for his mood either.

"Listen, man," Sam starts, standing up from the chair, "I'm gonna head to the local library and see what else I can dig up, alright? See if there's a cure. You just sit tight. Don't go anywhere because the, um, curse might start to act up and we have no idea what that entails."

Dean drops his head in his hands, pressing his thumbs to his temples in order to ward off an impending headache. "You mean we're not sure if I'll elope with a stranger or start humping some chick's leg like a dog, right?"

Sam rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "Uh, yeah, basically. The book didn't specify what exactly the effects were."

"Great. Just _great_."

* * *

With Sam gone, Dean sighs and flops down onto the shitty, creaky bed with the TV remote in one hand and a Snickers bar in the other. Thankfully, _Casa Erotica_ is always playing on loop in run-down dumps like this, and Sam was wise enough to pick up some chocolate on his latest trip to the gas station. Dean takes a bite of candy and flips halfheartedly through the TV menu for something good, wondering if it's extremely pathetic that his idea of pampering himself is watching bad porn and binging on junk food, or just _sort_ _of_ pathetic.

Whatever. With another bite of chocolate and a weary sigh, he switches the program on.

...

He doesn't notice it at first—the weird, fuzzy heat creeping along his extremities. It isn't until he's looking at Britney Rose (the main babe in _College Dorms III_) and catches himself thinking, "_Wow, she has a gorgeous smile and such a bubbly personality, she could do so much in the business world with that charisma" _that he starts to think something might be wrong.

Then, he looks at the dude currently drilling her into the mattress and feels this ridiculous burst of_ affection _for him, as if the guy were a lifelong friend instead of some random porn star. Dean's heart kind of breaks too, because there is so much more that Big Dick Rick could be doing with his life, like going to college for a degree or taking up an internship at the business of his choice. He's young and teeming with potential; what is he doing in porn?

Dean has to bite down on his knuckles to keep from tearing up over the misguided careers that these two have chosen; why don't young people understand that they've got their whole future ahead of them?

After another pained few minutes, it becomes too much and Dean just shuts the TV off entirely. Disconcerted and weighed down with melancholy, Dean drops his half-eaten candy bar and stares sadly at the blank screen, wondering why the porn industry has to run on things as tragic as absent fathers and empty bank accounts. Why is there a business that profits solely off of other's misfortune? Why should someone else's desperation for money result in another person's sick, perverted entertainment?

For a moment, Dean actually feels his throat clench in a sob.

And then, just as quickly they came, the feelings ebb away. The warm dizziness that engulfed him only moments ago evaporates, replaced by stark sobriety and a shit-ton of confusion.

"_What the actual fuck?"_ he hisses.

He stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom, where he plants himself before the mirror and inspects his reflection. Dean groans at the sight that greets him. High on his cheekbones are ridiculous pink splotches—since when does he freaking blush?!—and his eyes are glazed over and twinkling with happiness. If he wasn't so goddamn confused and pissed, he would probably admit that he looked _starry-eyed. _

However, as it stands, he is far too tangled up in indignation and uncertainty to dwell on the fact that he looks like a blushing virgin on her wedding night. With a loud, irritated exhale, he drags his hands down his face and groans. If the insane mood swings and happy/drugged look on his face are any indication, then the goddamn curse is finally making its appearance.

He sits on the closed toilet seat and pulls out his phone to text Sam. _**2 min. ago I almost shed a tear over a couple of porn stars. Either I'm growing a vagina or the curse is kicking in. DW **_

_**Hopefully not the former. Be there in 5 min. SW**_

In the meantime, Dean sits in the middle of the bathroom floor and growls every expletive known to man. Seventeen s-words, six b-words, and a few colorful synonyms for 'fuck' later, Dean hears the motel's door swing open and Sam's booming voice call, "Dean? You here?"

"Unfortunately," he bites. He lets his head fall back against the wall with a thud.

"Well I got you something that might cheer you up," Sam calls.

From outside, Dean can hear crinkling paper, and deduces that Sam bought him a skin mag—which he can't even enjoy because, thanks to the curse, he'll probably fall in love with one of the photos. He listens half-heartedly as Sam continues talking and rifling through his findings in the next room.

"Also, I found a couple of other things in the public library, but most of it only confirmed what we already knew," says Sam.

Awesome.

The rustling noises stop. "Dean?" Sam pushes the bathroom door open hesitantly, as if unsure of what he'll find. When it's clear that it's just Dean, slumped against the wall looking like the universe just kicked him in the jewels, Sam steps inside.

"So," he says, awkwardly. "How are you feeling?"

"Great_,_" Dean chirps. "Yeah, Sammy, I always sit on the bathroom floor and swear when I'm in a dandy mood!"

In response, Dean receives Sam's patent bitchface. "I thought this curse was supposed to make you _nicer."_

"If you showed up twenty minutes ago, you'd think I was an angel."

"Right. About that…" Sam lowers himself onto the closed toilet seat. "In one of these really old mythology books, I found something that said there were special cases in which the effects of the love bug were sporadic and random, and others where the victim could even control the impulses altogether. I think you might be part of the former category, since you were mooning over porn stars earlier but seem fine right now."

Dean frowns. "Wait, is that good or bad news?"

"Well, it's a little bit of both, actually. On the plus side, it means that you won't spend 24/7 as some love struck, puppy-eyed zombie. But…it also means that the curse will hit you randomly, which could potentially cause some awkward situations."

Dean drags his hands down his face in frustration. He waits for that all-too familiar feeling of dread to sink his stomach, but instead finds a warm, vaguely elated feeling thrumming in his veins. It's sudden and unexpected, but in mere moments, his body becomes completely engulfed in the sensation. He pulls his palms away from his eyes and glances up at Sam, who is staring back at him with a mildly concerned expression, and experiences a burst of affection strong enough to knock him off his feet. He suddenly can't remember why he was frustrated and angry in the first place; all of his mental angst recedes to the back of his mind in favor of happiness and an overwhelming amount of adoration.

"Sammy, you're the best, you know that?" Dean can't help the huge grin that spreads across his face. "I love you, man."

Sam blinks, then stumbles into the standing position. "Holy shit, is this the curse? Is it happening right now?"

It's amazing how caring his brother is; how, despite everything they've endured—lies, broken promises, hardship in general—Sam is still willing to stand by Dean's side and help him through whatever obstacle is in his way. There are not enough words in the English language to fully describe the gratitude Dean feels for having such an incredible, selfless brother.

"Yeah, it is, Sammy," he says with a smile. "But it's alright, man, because you're here to help me through it, just like you always are. God—I am just so lucky to have you as my family. C'mere."

And without further ado, he wraps his baby brother in a spine-crushing hug. Mid-embrace, Dean realizes just how tall Sam is, and chuckles. "Man, you're like a big, friendly tree."

"Dean, please let go," Sam wheezes, attempting to pry Dean's hands off of him.

"Too tight?"

"_Yeah." _

Dean obligingly loosens his grip, but makes sure not to completely let go. "I can't even remember why I was mad, anymore," he says into Sam's warm, flannel-clad shoulder.

"You were pissed because I told you that I didn't find a cure for your curse, Dean! You were angry and upset and annoyed, and you sure as hell would not be hugging me right now if you weren't high on love potion."

"I'm not high on…" Dean stops and blinks several times. All at once, the happy feelings drain away, leaving his brain dazed and confused.

"What the hell," he groans, releasing Sam immediately.

Sam leaps away from his immediate vicinity and sucks down lungfuls of air, making Dean wonder just how fierce that hug had been.

"You good?" Dean asks.

Sam stops panting and nods. "Better question is, are_ you_ good?"

"Right now, yeah. But I can't make any promises for the near future," he mutters bitterly.

Sam paces the room for a few seconds, clearly debating something. After a minute, he looks Dean right in the eye and says, "Dude, we need to call Cas, okay?"

Dean grits his teeth and pointedly ignores the way his heart pounds harder at the angel's name. "No," Dean retorts, his tone unyielding and firm. "He's probably busy with some heavenly duty or something. Doubt he has time to swing by."

"Dean, no offense, but you sound like a neglected girlfriend."

Dean's nostrils flare in irritation. "What's that supposed to mean? I don't sound like a 'neglected girlfriend' and I don't give a shit that he's busy all the damn time, alright? He's an angel. He's got bigger and better things to do than slum it on earth. I'm fine. No, I'm _great,_ actually." Dean tries to smile to show just how great he is, but it ends up looking more like a grimace.

Sam visibly wrestles down a smirk and goes back to his pacing. Under his breath, he says, "Doth protest too much…"

"Shut the hell up, Sam."

"Listen, man, Castiel is an angel and that's a hell of a lot closer to a goddess than a human. Plus, the dude's been around for how many millennia now? He's probably got access to loads of information we don't. If we're gonna figure this out, we need his help." Sam says. "Unless, of course, you _want_ to live your life with the emotional changeability of a thirteen year old girl…"

Dean screws his eyes shut and makes an aggravated noise. "Fine. Call the guy and let's get this show on the road."

Sam just scoffs. "Me? Yeah, we've tried that before. He doesn't come when I pray, remember? Not unless it's an actual 'we're two seconds from having our guts ripped out'—kind of situation. _You _call."

Dean considers arguing back for a moment, but he realizes that Sam has a point; Cas rarely comes when his brother calls, but when _Dean_ himself is the one praying, the angel shows up at the drop of a dime.

He pointedly ignores the warm flush he feels at that thought.

"Okay, whatever." Dean seats himself at the edge of the bed, closes his eyes, and raises his chin to the ceiling. "Uh, hey, Cas. Hi." He clears his throat and squirms uncomfortably. "So, I, uh, got myself into a little bit of a pickle here. See, Sam and me tried to off Venus—you know, Goddess of love and all that—but instead of killing her, we just made her mad as hell, and then she planted a _love bug_ on me. So yeah, now I'm cursed and Sammy hasn't found a cure yet, so we were wondering if you could maybe pop in and—"

"Hello, Dean."

"Jesus!" Dean shouts, jumping back in surprise at the scruffy-haired, squinty blue-eyed angel suddenly sitting half an inch away from him.

Cas tilts his head in confusion. "No, it's _Castiel." _

"I know that! I said Jesus because you just—just _poofed_ in here in without warning!"

Cas considers this. "Would you prefer a call in advance?"

For some reason, that nettles Dean. All at once, his angry (neglected) and pissed off (hurt) feelings towards Castiel come bursting forth. "Actually, Cas, I'd prefer a call _in general_. You can't just come and go like this without, you know, checking in every now and then, alright? How else am I—are _we_—supposed to know if you're okay?"

Dean's words apparently reach Cas, because his eyes immediately grow wide and remorseful. "My apologies, Dean," he says lowly. "I did not realize my absence was having such a negative effect on you. In the future I will endeavor to tell you my whereabouts so that you do not have to worry."

Before Dean can revel in the relief and comfort that those words bring, Sam has to butt in and ruin it. "Awesome," he says obnoxiously. "Now that you two have kissed and made up, can we please get back to the curse?"

Dean looks pissed and Cas looks perplexed. "But Dean and I didn't—"

"He's just being a dick, Cas. Ignore him." Dean snaps, glaring at Sam, who stares back evenly—if not a little smugly—with his arms crossed over his chest, as if to say _'problem?'_ "But, he has a point; we gotta focus on this love bug thing. Do you know anything about it?"

"Tell me what you already know."

After Dean wastes seven minutes explaining his situation—complete with colorful hand gestures and expletives—it turns out Castiel knows even less than they do.

"Man, angels are supposed to know how to solve shit like this!" Dean complains. "You've been around forever, how do you not know more about this?"

Cas glares at him, and it's basically the angelic version of Sam's bitchface. Bitingly, Cas says, "I'm sorry I haven't paid attention to the minutia of a Roman goddess's love curse, _Dean, _I was a bit preoccupied with protecting humanity and serving the creator of the universe for several thousand years."

Dean's about to ask who the hell taught him sarcasm, when Castiel exhales loudly and continues. "However, I do know enough to say that Venus is clearly still alive, otherwise the curse would not be active. It is a widely known fact that the death of a goddess or god nullifies whatever spells they've cast in their lifetime."

"So you're saying we have to find and kill Venus—again—in order to destroy this curse?" Sam clarifies.

"In essence. I'm sure there is another method of removing this 'love bug', but since none of the accounts discuss any of them, I'm assuming only the goddess herself knows of the alternatives."

By all means, Dean should be paying one hundred percent attention right now, but his eyes cannot stop drifting towards the angel's blue tie, which is twisted at the top and half-hidden beneath the collar of his trench coat. It's just so damn_ disorganized_. Dean's never been one for perfection, but right now, his previously nonexistent OCD is kicking into gear big time.

Sam says something back to Cas with a thoughtful expression, and Cas replies with a head shake. More words are exchanged. Dean catches about half of them.

Dean tries to focus, he really does, but for some reason, Cas's goddamn crooked tie keeps bothering him like a rash. When it finally becomes unbearable to just _sit _there, Dean places one hand on Cas's lapel and the other at the knot of his tie.

—which turns out to be the biggest fucking mistake ever.

Because the moment his fingers brush against the skin-warmed material of Castiel's shirt, a warm, tingly sensation shoots through his body like a drug. Dean can actually _feel _his judgement becoming blurry and distant, while his body's natural instincts sharpen and burst forth like firecrackers.

However, Dean's emotional 360 apparently doesn't show externally, because Castiel's face doesn't change. He just keeps calmly looking down at Dean's hands on his chest while he continues speaking to Sam in an even, unfazed tone.

Dean, on the other hand, can only stare at Cas with his mouth agape and his eyes round as dinner plates.

The hot, burning feeling spreads, and his brain becomes soaked with endorphins, dopamine, adrenalin, and every other feel-good chemical his body has to offer. His fingertips itch with the urge to tug through Cas's hair, graze the swell of his bottom lip, clutch possessively at his narrow hips. He feels like he's going crazy with desire.

And how can anyone blame him? Castiel is a delicious combination of liquid blue eyes, dark, scruffy hair, and a voice that sounds like you could fucking _sandpaper_ something with it, and Dean can't help but want an armful of gorgeous angel right this goddamn second.

"Cas," he breathes, swaying on his feet a little, "Can I hug you?"

Dean allows himself two seconds to appreciate the frankly adorable look of confusion Cas wears in response, before he moves in for the kill. Without preamble, Dean leaps forward, hooks his arms underneath Cas's armpits, and pulls him so tightly against his body that he actually lifts the angel a few inches off the ground. With his hands fisted in the back of Castiel's coat and his chin hooked firmly over Castiel's shoulder, Dean sighs. "Man, you smell so good. Like ozone and soap. And clean skin. And sort of like sunshine. Does that have a smell? If it does, this is what it smells like."

Cas, to his credit, just stands there and takes it, his body as rigid as a statue.

"…Dean?" Cas asks after a long (long) moment.

Dean doesn't relax his grip, but he does pull back enough to see Cas's face, which is easily the most lovely thing Dean's ever seen.

"Hiya, Cas," he says, his heart fluttering in his chest like a love-struck thirteen year old. Even though some distant part of his mind screams that this is not how he should be behaving, another part of him—the part doused in a cocktail of dopamine and love potion—reminds him that Cas is beautiful and powerful and so freaking _hot _that it actually _hurts _not to be touching him at all times_._

"Um, Hello, Dean," Cas responds, completely bemused.

It's then that Dean begins to contemplate the glorious prospect of crushing his mouth to those pink, slightly-chapped lips and kissing the motherfucking hell out of them. Cas is only a few inches away, it would be so damn easy to close that distance…

But then, Sam, being the total C-blocker that he is, interrupts that train of thought by loudly clearing his throat. "Could you stop molesting Cas for two seconds, Dean? We're trying to figure out how to fix this curse!"

With his eyes still locked unapologetically on Cas's mouth, Dean licks his lips. "I'm busy."

"Um, Dean?" Cas interjects.

"Yeah, angel?" God, it feels good to say that.

"You're, um, crushing my ribs."

At that, something switches in Dean—his body temperature drops from magma to normal, his heart stops hammering like a drum, and the hormones firing off in his brain abruptly mellow down. He immediately releases Cas and backs up.

"Whoa, uh, sorry, man," Dean says. "I guess I just got a little carried away there. I…I'm good now."

Cas looks disheveled and confused—his trench coat is hanging off one shoulder and his tie is crumpled—and there are two patches of pink blush high on his cheekbones. The sight of Cas so flustered would've made Dean smirk on any other day, but being that he'd just been two seconds away from cramming his tongue down the angel's throat, he finds very little humor in the situation.

"That was…the curse I presume?" Cas says after a million years of awkward silence.

Dean rubs the back of his neck and wishes the earth would just swallow him whole. "Uh, yeah. It happens sort of randomly." Then, as an afterthought, he adds, "Sorry."

"It's, it's um, fine. It's alright." Cas clears his throat raw and stares at his shoes. "Have you tried calling Bobby yet?"

Relieved at the subject change, Dean replies, "We were going to, once we'd done our own research and figured out as much as possible. And…I guess since we've done that, it's time we pay him a visit." He glances at Sam for affirmation.

"Fine," Sam says. "But I'm driving."

Dean's face twists into a scowl and he starts to make an argument, but Sam cuts him off. "Do you really wanna risk driving with that curse looming over your head? What if you see someone on the way there, fall in love, and swerve the car off the road to get to them? Or what if you start crying again because you care about us so much or something, and crash us into a tree on accident? Or what if you—"

"Fine, alright, alright, I get it!" Dean snaps crabbily. "I'm a walking bomb! Got it! Let's just hit the road already. The sooner we figure this shit out the better."

Sam nods and turns on his heel to start packing up their belongings. Dean glances at Cas out of the corner of his idea, noticing with a small amount of satisfaction that the blush is still there. "You coming, Cas?"

"Yes, I'll meet you there lat—"

"No, I mean, are you driving up with us?"

Castiel squints. "Why would I do that, Dean? I have wings, remember?"

Dean isn't sure how to explain—in a manly, dignified manner—that not having Cas within his immediate vicinity makes him feel a little hollow, both from the vestiges of the curse and from the simple fact that he hardly sees the angel anymore. Unfortunately, there is no convenient phrase that expresses this concisely, so Dean just scuffs his shoes against the floor and clears his throat. "Uh, yeah, never mind, you're right. See you there," he says to the carpet.

And although he really shouldn't be, Dean finds himself extremely disappointed when he glances up and realizes that Cas has already left.

* * *

**A/N: Let me know what you think, guys! I love hearing your opinions and comments :)**


	3. Idjit in Love

"Come on, Dean, we better hit the road."

"Yeah, I'm com—" Dean stops and freezes in the doorway of the hotel room, that strange, hot-cold feeling starting up yet again.

"Whoa, I don't feel so good, Sammy," he groans, rubbing at his temples. Waves of pain crash through his skull and nearly knock him off his feet. "_Shit_."

Sam gives him a concerned look and touches his shoulder. "Hey, what's wrong, man?"

"I feel all—weird again. It's the bite thing. I started feeling sick as soon as Cas poofed out of here and now I feel really dizzy. And, um, nauseous." He sways on his feet and grips the doorway to steady himself, his stomach roiling and his head spinning. As a precautionary measure, he smacks his hand over his mouth. "In fact, you better tell that angel to get his feathery ass down here ASAP, otherwise your boots are about to get a paintjob."

Sam frowns. "Paintjob?"

"I meant I'm gonna puke on your damned shoes, Sam!" Dean cries in exasperation. "So kindly summon Cas because the longer I talk the more I feel like—ugh—_barfing_." He groans and slides down to the floor, hands clutching his middle in agony.

Sam's eyebrows hit his hairline. "Alright, alright, well first let's get you outside so you can get some fresh air." Sam heaves Dean up by the armpits and practically carries him out the door. Out in the parking lot, he props Dean against the side of the Impala and holds onto his shoulder to keep him in place. With his free hand shielding his eyes, he looks up at the blistering sun and tries to summon the angel.

"Uh, hey, Cas. You listening? So, I know you just left and all, but Dean's not feeling to well and—"

"Dean is not feeling well?" the angel asks, suddenly two inches from Sam's right shoulder.

"Jesus, Cas, you really gotta give us some kind of warning!" Sam cries.

As usual, Cas completely ignores Sam and turns to Dean. "Are you alright? What's wrong, Dean?"

Dean blinks in surprise, stunned to find that Castiel's arrival has made the nausea magically disappear. Now, instead of feeling sick and weak, his chest is flooded with warmth and gooey affection. That heady, ecstatic feeling that he's come to associate with the curse shoots through his body like a drug, leaving him wobbly in the knees and heedless of anything that does not pertain to the gorgeous blue-eyed angel standing before him.

"Nothing's wrong now that you're here, beautiful," he breathes, throwing an arm gaily around Cas's shoulder. Without warning, Dean smacks a loud kiss against Castiel's cheek, grinning like an idiot as he pulls away. "Nice to see you again."

"Uh, Sam?" Cas asks, eyeing Dean cautiously from the corner of his eye. "I'm guessing this is what you were referring to?"

Sam winces and scratches the back of his head. "Er, yeah. He's all loopy again. But before you got here, he looked like he was on the brink of puking, so I guess this is an improvement."

"That is very interesting," Cas muses. "Perhaps there are even more nuances to this curse than we initially imagined. I suppose this means there are multiple factors that have an impact on the strength and regularity of the curse's appearances. And I, for whatever reason, am apparently one of them."

"Yeah, well for now it's a good thing," Sam says. "Dean seems much better than he did before you—Dean, will you stop grabbing Cas's ass for one second? We're trying to talk here!"

Dean grumbles a few choice expletives under his breath and reluctantly removes his hand.

"There, happy now, Sammy?" Dean snaps.

"Yes," Sam replies primly. "Now, why don't we head to Bobby's? Cas, it looks like you're gonna have to come with us."

Cas nods dutifully, "Of course, Sam."

Meanwhile, Dean continues swooning over the stoic, righteous, blue-eyed creature he's somehow had the fortune of befriending. Castiel is so beautiful and brave, he can't seem to tear his eyes away.

Sam, oblivious to the rate at which Dean's heart is melting, turns to him and says, "Alright then. Sound good with you, man?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Dean replies distractedly. He is quite intent on absorbing every single detail of Cas's perfect visage and not even a nuclear missile could deter him, let alone Sam's annoying questions. Sam could've asked if he'd like to wear a lace thong and sell the impala for ten cents and he would've agreed just as readily.

"Okay, well I'm gonna drive. That alright with you?" Sam asks, glancing warily between the car keys in his palm and Dean's dewy-eyed expression.

If this was any other situation, Dean would scoff at the mere_ notion_ of allowing Sam to drive Baby, but at the moment, the only thing that matters is the rumpled angel standing to his right.

"Course it is, Sammy. I've got Cas here to keep me company." And with that, Dean tugs Castiel into the backseat and proceeds to wrap himself around the angel like some sort of clingy octopus. Cas offers a surprised sound in response, but makes no move to leave, much to Dean's relief.

"Uh, alright," Sam says, sliding into the front seat. "How do you feel man?" he asks, watching Dean through the rearview mirror.

"Awesome! I feel all…tingly, but not as much as I did earlier, so I think that means the curse is getting more subdued."

Sam crooks an eyebrow. "Right. So then why are you clinging to Cas like a needy girlfriend?"

"I said _subdued_, not gone entirely, Sam."

"Which means…?"

"Look, man, I gotta keep in contact with Cas or else I feel…" he frowns, sifting through his mental dictionary for the correct word. "Empty, I guess? Like someone just knocked the wind out of me or something. Either way, it's no bueno, so I gotta keep him within reach for however long this feeling lasts. Besides, Cas doesn't mind, do ya, buddy?"

Cas shrugs his shoulders and allows his head to lean back against Dean's shoulder. "You rarely allow close proximity between us, so this is unfamiliar," he admits, dropping one of his previously folded hands onto the legs framing his sides. He taps Dean's thigh contemplatively. "But I am not opposed to it."

Warmth pools in Dean's chest like lava, a delicious cocktail of feel-good chemical exploding through his brain like fireworks.

"Well," Sam says, sticking the key into the ignition. "You seem way saner than you were earlier and you're not acting completely nuts, so I guess I can't complain. You're just being more affectionate and…clingy."

"I'm not being clingy!" Dean protests, clinging to Cas even harder.

Sam snorts. "Are your lungs okay, Cas? Dean's squeezing pretty hard…"

Castiel nods sagely in response. "It will take far more than Dean's admittedly aggressive affection to stop my breathing."

Instead of being offended that Cas described him as aggressive, Dean decides to take it as permission to cuddle even more fiercely.

...

While Sam sits in the front jamming out to his favorite country CD (which Dean would immediately eject and then throw out the window if he were in a saner state of mind), Dean wraps himself around Castiel, his arms possessively clutching the angel against his chest like a giant stuffed animal.

"Dean," Cas says, a good ten minutes into the trip.

"Yeah, Cas?" he replies into Castiel's hair, which smells like a delicious combination of fresh air, ozone, and a vaguely sweet scent that Dean decides is entirely Castiel's own.

"Perhaps you should put on your seatbelt?"

Oh, right.

Up in the front seat, Sam stops humming along with the radio and catches Dean's eyes in the rearview mirror, immediately adopting his 'disapproving mother' look. "You don't have a seatbelt on, Dean?"

"Both me and Cas wouldn't have fit inside one seatbelt," he protests, running a thumb over the angel's arm. And it's true, they _wouldn't_ have fit—well, maybe they could've fit if they sat side by side, but where was the fun in that? Dean much prefers their current position, with Cas situated between his legs and the angel's back pressed against his chest. It's the closest they can get without being face-to-face, and the curse has apparently deemed it sufficient, because the gnawing ache in the pit of Dean's stomach is so subdued that he hardly notices it anymore.

"Put it on, Dean," Sam scolds, eyeing him in the rearview mirror.

"Sam—"

"Dean," Cas interjects, voice grave and authoritative. "Do it."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Guys, relax, alright? The roads are clear, Baby's wheels are smooth as butter, and there's no way we'll get—hey! Cas, where're you going?"

Dean watches helplessly as Castiel pries himself out of his grip with thoughtless ease—proving correct Dean's assumption that the angel was only humoring his supposed strength this whole time—and scoots himself against the opposite window.

"Put your seatbelt on, Dean. I will not have you injured because of this curse."

Dean reaches out, already feeling slightly sick from the lack of contact, but Cas just leans even further away. "Do not touch me until you've put it on"

Dean frowns. _Is Cas seriously withholding cuddles right now?_ "Like a seatbelt could offer more protection than an angel."

Castiel eyes him from across the backseat, unimpressed and stoic. "Safety, Dean."

"Cas—"

_"__Safety." _

"Fine," he concedes, making a point of tugging the belt across his chest and buckling it in. "Happy?"

Cas doesn't smile, but the severity of gaze disappears and his eyes return to their placid, luminescent blue. "Very. Would you still prefer that I sit between your legs and lean against you?"

Dean flushes despite the fact that the curse-drunken part of mind immediately cheers in eagerness. "When you phrase it like that it sounds weird," he mutters.

"Yeah, it sounds pretty sexual when you put it like that," Sam helpfully contributes over the sound of _Sweet Home Alabama._

Dean pointedly glares at the back of his brother's head, ignoring the way his huge, sasquatch-like shoulders shake in silent laughter.

Cas tilts his head. "How does it sound sexual? Is it the placement of our anatomical parts?" The angel's expression clears as if something has just occurred to him. "Ah, is it because my back and buttocks are in close proximity of your—"

"Cas," Dean cuts off, face hotter than the fires of hell. "Just—just c'mere and lay on my chest and let me smell your hair, goddamnit."

Cas, calm as ever, only blinks languidly in response and obligingly crawls over, situating himself back where he was earlier, with some slight altercations due to the unwelcome addition of the seatbelt. _Safety my ass, _Dean thinks petulantly as he cards his fingers through the angel's dark hair.

"That feels fairly pleasurable," Castiel mutters, pushing his head back into Dean's palm like a cat. Dean flushes and keeps going, scratching his nails lightly against the angel's scalp and tugging gently at his messy, black hair.

"That feel good?" he asks, throat uncomfortably tight.

"Mmm," Cas groans, tipping his head back and revealing the long column of his neck. He closes his eyes and hums in enjoyment. "It does, please continue."

Dolly Parton's heartbroken crooning abruptly cuts off and Sam purposefully angles the rearview mirror away from them. "I swear to god, if you guys start having sex back there, I'm going to turn this car around and dump you out on the side of the road."

Still with his eyes peacefully shut, Cas calmly replies, "We are not going engage in coitus right now, Sam." He pauses and considers something. "Though, Dean's body certainly seems to think that sex is on the horizon."

Sam makes a face of horror. "Cas, if that means what I think it means…"

The curse has a funny way of taking the edge off emotions that don't pertain to affection or lust, so Dean feels almost no embarrassment when Cas succinctly replies, "Yes, an erection, Sam. You are correct."

Sam, on the other hand, does not have the luxury of feeling no shame. "Gross! Dean, stop having a boner while I'm in the car!"

"It's natural, Sammy," he explains lazily, waving it away.

"Yes," Cas agrees wisely. "It is part of the biological construction of the human body, there's nothing to be ashamed of."

Sam's only response is to grumble something about _biological construction my ass_ and turn the radio back up to max volume, nearly blowing out the speakers with Tom Petty's bluesy guitar. Dean continues happily stroking Cas's hair and Sam makes a point of not asking anymore questions for the rest of the ride to Bobby's.

* * *

The moment Bobby opens the door and sees the three of them standing there on his porch, he groans and rubs a hand down his face. "Alright, what in the _hell _have you idjits gotten yourselves into now?"

"Hey!" Dean protests, one arm looped around Cas's waist. "How do you know we're not just here to stop by and say hello?"

Bobby just scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest. "Well, for one, Sam looks about as guilty as a kid who broke his momma's favorite vase, and two, your eyes are glazed over like you just topped off a weekend long bender. Can't smell any booze on your breath and I know drugs ain't your vice, so I figure it must be some kinda spell." Bobby glances between him and Sam. "And knowing you two, you probably went poking your noses where they didn't belong and ended up screwing yourselves in the process. Unless, of course, I'm completely wrong and you _intentionally_ cursed yourself."

Sam ducks his head and scuffs his shoes against the floor. "Well…"

"Yeah, didn't think so. Now why don't you three come inside so we can figure this out."

And with that, Bobby turns and disappears into the house, muttering something about damn boys and their damn trouble.

...

"So let me get this straight," Bobby says half an hour later, a beer in one hand and his head in the other. "You idjits went after the goddess of love, tried to kill her—_failed_—and then pissed her off so bad that she planted a damn _bug _on Dean? What in the_ hell_ were you thinking?"

Bobby glances between the two of them with an exasperated expression, eyebrows high on his forehead, waiting for an answer. When nothing is forthcoming, he takes off his cap and throws it to the ground. "Damnit boys, if you're gonna do something that stupid, at least do it _right!"_

"Bobby," Dean interjects, "Me and Sam did all the research we could, but none of the stuff we found said anything about love curses—"

"She's the goddamn goddess of mother-loving _LOVE_, Dean! Of course she's gonna have a few tricks up her sleeve, especially since you idjits tried to off her and did a sorry-ass job of it!"

"But—"

"Your butt's behind you, boy, there ain't a good excuse for this mess. And did it ever occur to you to double check your facts with me before storming into battle, guns blazing, and attempting to take on one of the most powerful Roman goddesses this world has to offer? Or did you just think, nah, old Bobby's not gonna know anything useful, let's just run into this thing head first and hope for the best!"

Dean opens his mouth to defend himself again, but Cas presses a placating hand to his chest and stops him. A shudder of sparks shoots down his spine at the small contact and he happily shuts up, turning his attention to the angel's graceful, nimble hands instead. Cas's fingers are long and elegant as fuck, and Dean has to fight the very strange, very _strong_ urge to suck on them.

"Bobby, if I may interrupt?" Cas asks politely.

Bobby takes a long swig of beer and pinches the bridge of his nose, warding away an inevitable headache. "Yeah, yeah, go on," he grumbles.

"Sam's research prior to the attempted murder of Venus was very thorough and did not provide any indication that the goddess was still in possession of any potent love curses; in fact, I witnessed the _creation _of many of the literary resources Sam used as references and I can guarantee they were as accurate as humanly possible. Unfortunately, the method Sam and Dean used to 'gank' the goddess was not correctly executed—the recipe called for a fresh virgin's bone as opposed to an already deceased one's—but even that mistake can be attributed to inaccurate documentation of the source's original author, and not to Sam and Dean themselves. This mishap could not have been avoided unless they hadn't attempted to go after the goddess at all, which we all know goes against their innate hunter tendencies."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Well said, Cas."

"Yeah, Bobby, you hear that? Cas is right—this ain't our fault," Dean chimes in before turning to Cas with a smile. "Nice job, angel," he praises, smacking a loud kiss against the side of his face. Castiel flushes, Sam cringes, and Bobby just rolls his eyes and heads to the kitchen.

"I need another beer," Bobby mumbles, shaking his head.

...

"Cas, just because Dean's high on love potion, doesn't mean you have to _sit in his lap_," Sam says, eyeing the angel from across the room. "He'll survive just fine without your ass within his immediate vicinity."

"Shut it, Sam," Dean snaps, tightening his grip on the angel's waist to prevent him from leaving his lap. "Cas doesn't mind. Right, angel?"

Cas shrugs, an oddly humanlike gesture, and continues placidly reading Bobby's book on curse lore. "Sam, I understand that Dean finds this necessary in his current state, so I have no objections."

"There ya go," Dean says jovially, looking at Sam with a smug smile. "His ass is just fine where it is, _Sam."_

"If you're done talking about Cas's vessel's ass," Bobby interrupts as he walks into the room with a fresh beer in hand, "then can we please get the hell back on topic?" Without waiting for an answer, Bobby flips open the heavy book on his desk and begins searching for a page.

"Here we go," he says after a minute. "Right here it says that in the past, the effects of the curse have varied from person to person, meaning the spell is specifically tailored for each individual. Here, it says this man developed—yikes," Bobby winces at the next line of text. "_Incestuous feelings for his_ _brother_ a few hours after the curse took effect." Bobby looks up from the book and shoots a look in Dean's direction.

"Hey!" Dean shouts, putting his hands up in surrender. "I can damn well promise you my feelings for Sam are nowhere near creep territory, okay?"

"God, I hope not," Sam cringes. "Ugh. Alright, keep reading, Bobby."

"Another woman found that she felt extremely fond and affectionate towards everyone she met for the rest of her life. That one ain't that bad, actually." He leans in to examine the next page and cringes. "This poor bastard died of an overproduction of dopamine and oxytocin. His brain melted like candle wax."

"Whoa, what?" Dean cries, jumping off the couch to read the book over Bobby's shoulder. "Holy shit. Holy _actual_ shit, Bobby, this dude's brain dribbled out of his freaking ears."

Cas, now alone on the sofa, looks up from his book and pointedly clears his throat. "I don't believe Dean will have to worry about any of that. I have found something of import."

"What is it, angel?" Dean asks.

"According to _Ancient Tomes Vol. II: Amortentia and Other Love Spells, _permanent reactions to the curse showed up within hours of contacting the 'bug'. As you haven't showed any signs of dangerously high hormone levels or inappropriate incestuous feelings, it is almost guaranteed that you never will. I believe that your need to remain within close proximity of me is the extent of the curse. And the desire for physical affection will come and go, which means that it might 'switch off' at any given moment."

"So, what you're saying is, I have no risk of getting weird with Sam or melting my brains out?" Dean clarifies with raised eyebrows.

"Yes."

"Well then!" Dean exclaims, crossing the room in two strides and throwing an arm around Cas's waist in celebration. "That's great news, right, Bobby? If the only side effect to this curse is wanting to be close to Cas, then I can't say I'm in the worst situation in the world."

"Boy, let's not start popping the champagne just yet, alright? You still gotta find Venus and figure out how the hell we're gonna get that thing off your back. Do you understand that, Dean?" When Dean's moony gaze remains locked on Cas's profile, Bobby shakes his head and makes his way into the kitchen.

"Cas, you come here," Bobby calls. "Give Dean a minute to think with a clear head."

As soon as the angel begins to rise from the sofa, Dean grabs the edge of his trench coat and stares at him with frantic eyes. "Hey, buddy, you can't leave me alone because I get all weird and sick, remember?"

"Dean," Castiel soothes, "I will only be a few rooms away, so you should not experience nausea and dizziness. If you do, simply call me and I will return."

Dean nods hesitantly and releases the angel's sleeve, watching with wary eyes as he leaves the room with Bobby.

"Alright," Sam says, clapping his hands together once. "Now why don't we talk about our plan to hunt down the goddess."

Mere seconds after Castiel's departure, Dean feels the warm, cloudy fog leave his mind and his thoughts regain a clarity and sharpness he hasn't experienced in hours.

"Yeah, good idea. What do you have in mind?"

"Well, first we gotta look into the next town she's planning on hitting," Sam says. "I'm guessing she isn't stupid enough to just hop on to the next town after nearly getting killed in the last one, so she'll probably head somewhere a few states away. Maybe Ohio? After that, we need to look at the weather patterns and ecological changes that preceded her arrival at the last town. That'll give us a good indication of what kind of power she's packing right now, because she's definitely weaker than she was a few days ago. Of course, before we do any of that, we gotta find a weapon that'll kill her for good this time. If we mess up again, the punishment's gonna be way worse than a little love spell."

Dean frowns. "But does a weapon like that even exist? Didn't you say the only thing that can kill her is a weapon forged on Mount Olympus?"

"That's true," Sam says, his forehead creasing in thought. "When Bobby comes back in, we should ask him what he thinks."

"Good idea."

A beat of silence passes.

"You know, this is kind of interesting."

Dean gives him a look. "What's interesting?"

"You haven't been all lovey-dovey with me! Or Bobby for that matter. In fact, ever since we left the motel, you've only gone loopy when you're around Cas. It's like—it's like the curse has zeroed in on him or something."

"My head does feel clearer now that it's just me and you," Dean admits slowly, chewing on Sam's idea. "But why is it different with Cas? You spent more time with me today so it isn't like exposure is a huge factor."

"Maybe it's the intensity of your emotions that decides it," Sam ventures. "Or maybe it's the type of emotions? You know, the difference between the way you feel about me and Bobby and the way you feel about Cas."

Dean narrows his eyes. "And what way is that?"

"Hm?" Sam raises an innocent brow. "Oh, you know."

"Actually, Sammy, I don't believe I do," replies Dean evenly.

"You've clearly got the hots for him," Sam says in an exhale, reclining back in his chair. "And if it makes you feel any better, I'm 99% sure he feels the same."

"I do _not_ 'have the hots' for Cas!" Dean cries, his indignant tone hitting an uncomfortably high pitch.

"Mm hm, whatever you say."

Dean bristles. "I'm not gay, Sam."

At that, the smile leaves Sam's face and his expression grows serious. "Hey, listen, I know you're not gay, Dean. I never said that. But for the past few years it's been clear as freaking crystal that you and Cas have something between you two. Remember what he said about your_ profound_ _bond?_"

Dean grits his teeth and looks pointedly to the ceiling. "So how am I not gay if I supposedly like Cas?"

Sam shrugs his shoulders. "If you want to get technical, Cas isn't actually a dude. He's a physical manifestation of light waves and energy or whatever. And even if he is a 'guy', you can still like him without identifying as gay, Dean. Does _bisexual_ ring any bells?"

Yes. Quite a few bells, actually, but Dean is absolutely not in the mood for a sexual identity crisis right now, so he dismisses Sam's statement with an eye roll.

"You know what I think, Sam? I think you're enjoying this."

"Well, 'enjoying' is kind of extreme, but it _is_ nice to see you being more open about your emotions. Especially with Castiel."

Dean feels heat rush to his cheeks. "Shut up, man."

Sam smiles, partially in amusement and partially in genuine warmth. "All I'm saying, is you guys need each other—always have, in fact—and I just think it's nice that you're finally being up front about it with each other. Even if it _is_ requiring a bit of a push on your end."

"A push? Is that what you're calling the beetle nursery on my back, now?"

"I just think it's been good for you, is all."

"Have you forgotten that this is a curse, Sam? Since when has a curse—brought on by a pissed goddess no less—turned out to be a good thing? There's always some crazy shit that happens, and, unlike you, I'm waiting for the other damn shoe to drop before I start throwing confetti and getting gay-married to an angel!"

"Hey, no need to get snappy," Sam pacifies, raising his hands in surrender. "I'm just saying, maybe this whole things isn't as terrible as it seems. I mean, I definitely still think we should get it off of you ASAP, but in the meantime, I don't know, I think you should recognize the upsides."


	4. Lover Boy

**A/N: *updates a year later***

**Basically, guys, I wrote this last October, rewrote everything last May, and am finally updating it today. I have no idea when the next update will be, but I promise there won't be such an insane wait this time! The next chapter should be up in two-ish weeks, so make sure to sub! J**

* * *

"The upsides?" Dean repeats incredulously. Since when is crawling all over Castiel like a needy girlfriend an _upside? _As far as Dean can tell, there is nothing beneficial about not being able to think straight whenever Cas is in the room. Calling it an upside is a freaking _joke, _and Dean is no mood to laugh right now.

"Yeah, Dean. You're opening up more," Sam continues, still posed casually in his chair, as if the words coming from his mouth aren't absolutely insane. "As weird as it might sound, I think it's helping you get in touch with your emotional side."

"Jesus Christ, Sam," Dean says, shaking his head in awe. "I can't believe you're actually pleased about this."

"No, hey, don't get me wrong, we definitely need to get that thing the hell off of you—the spastic bursts of affection are pretty weird—but at the same time, I think you'll have gained some valuable insight from this once it's over."

"Some valuable insight," Dean echoes in disbelief. "Yeah, okay, Sam. Know what else I'll probably gain? Some kind of weird freaking skin virus from having a goddamn cursed beetle on my back!"

"Dean—"

"No, Sam, I'm not buying your bullshit."

Sam throws his hands up in frustration. "Open your eyes, Dean! I've been telling you that there's something between you and Cas for years, but you haven't listened. Now, the goddess of love herself has intervened and started pushing you two together. Don't you think that means something?"

Even though Dean is abundantly aware that Sam means well, he can't help but feel more than a little annoyed that his brother keeps harping on this. Just because the effects of the spell are slightly more potent when Cas is around, doesn't mean Dean is freaking head over heels for him. For all they know, the curse only gets stronger around Cas because his angelic aura magnifies whatever magical crap he's close to. Or maybe it's just one big coincidence that doesn't actually mean anything at all. Who the hell knows? Certainly not Sam. And Dean is right about to explain this to him when, out of nowhere, a sharp stab of pain punches him in the gut and renders him speechless.

"Dean?" says Sam, noticing his pained expression. "You good?"

Instead of replying, Deans clutches his middle in agony and groans. Tears spring to his eyes as another jolt of pain runs tortuously up his spine like needles.

"Dean!" Sam's alarmed face swims into view and Dean feels Sam's huge hands close around his shoulders. "What's wrong?"

"It—hurts," he chokes out, knocked breathless by yet another sickening wave of nausea. Blindly, he stumbles backwards and collapses onto the couch, relieved to at least have something solid to cling to. Black dots dance before his vision and uncomfortable hot flashes spark beneath his skin like rogue fireworks. "Fucking hell…" he groans, dropping his head into his hands and grabbing fistfuls of his hair. He knows what this is—it's the same ache he felt when Cas left the first time, except now it's ten times worse. That familiar sensation of hunger and need pulls at his heart like a hook, but unlike previous times, it now feels as if the organ is about to be ripped from his chest. His blood rushes noisily in his ears and sweat begins to bead on his forehead.

"Cas!" Sam calls frantically, standing up. "Come in here man, Dean's getting sick again and I think—"

But before Sam can even finish speaking, Cas is already there, rushing into the room and shoving Sam aside. "Dean?" he says in concern, dropping to his knees before the sofa and cradling Dean's face in his hands. His eyes are wide, worried, and impossibly blue. "Are you okay?"

As soon as Cas's hands meet his skin, Dean gasps as if he just surfaced from a swimming pool. Immediately, sweet relief washes over him like a cool breeze and all of the pain melts away like snow. He reaches for Castiel, desperate for more contact.

"I am now," he says hoarsely, throwing his arms around Cas's neck and pulling him into a tight hug. When Cas wraps his arms around Dean's back to reciprocate, Dean melts bonelessly into the embrace. Flooded with a burst of dopamine and relief, Dean nuzzles his face into Cas's shoulder, breathing deeply into the material of his coat. "You smell so damn good, Cas…"

_Like warmth and Ozone and a little bit of aftershave…_

"Christ almighty," Bobby whistles from the doorway. "It's worse than we thought."

From his seat across the room, Sam stares at him, looking more than a bit shaken. "Dean, that was insane," he mutters. "You went from completely fine to practically dying within seconds, and Cas was only two rooms away."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, the word muffled by Cas's hair. It's so hard to focus on what Sam's saying when his entire brain is clouded with the smells, sights, and sensations that accompany having Castiel so close. It's as if Dean is hearing everything Sam is saying from the other end of a tunnel—the words are audible, but terribly muted and vague. Distantly, he knows he should be just as alarmed as Sam and Bobby, considering he nearly blacked out just now, but he can't bring himself to care. Cas is just so warm and comforting and wonderful that he simply cannot see the point in focusing on anything other than him.

"Dean, I am concerned about your health," Cas states worriedly, his hand absently petting the space between Dean's shoulder blades. "I believe there is a very dire conflict at hand."

"And what's that, angel?" Dean asks dreamily. He runs his hands through Cas's hair, entangling his fingers in the dark waves at the nape of his neck. "Tell me. You always say the smartest things."

Cas sighs and props his chin on Dean's head, apparently having decided it's useless to try and explain anything to him. He looks at Sam and Bobby with a grave expression. "The problem is Dean cannot seem to think straight when he and I are within the same vicinity, but then the moment I leave, his health is compromised. I do not see a clear solution here, as there is no way I can remain at Dean's side _and _away from Dean at the same time."

"I know," Bobby says, rubbing his forehead. He glances at Dean, who is still stubbornly clinging to Cas like an octopus. "Is it just me or is he acting twice as bad as before?"

"It's not just you," Sam says. "He's acting way more clingy and affectionate than he was earlier, and the side-effects of Cas leaving were also way more extreme. Before, he just got a headache and felt a little nauseous. Just now, though, he was sweating bullets and groaning like there was a knife in his gut."

"Looked like he was about to keel over, too," Bobby adds with a frown.

"Mm, but I'm okay now," Dean insists, moving his face from the crook of Cas's neck. He turns his head and stares moony-eyed at the angel. "It's simple. As long as I have you by my side, I'm fine, right, baby?"

"Yes, Dean, you're right," Cas placates, all but patting his head in comfort. He looks back at Sam with a frown. "How long have his previous episodes lasted?"

"I dunno, the first one lasted only a few minutes with me, but the ones with you lasted at least twenty. The one on the way over here was almost half an hour."

Cas considers this. "Do you think they'll get progressively longer and longer until it's just his constant state of being, or do you think they'll continue to remain sporadic and unpredictable?

Cas keeps moving his hands around while he talks, which is really frustrating because it means Dean can't comfortably rest his head on Cas's shoulder. To make matters worse, he won't stop talking about Dean's 'affliction'—something Dean can't quite understand the downsides to—and all the boring plans that go along with it. As much as he loves his friendly tree of a brother and grumpy-yet-lovable surrogate father, Dean really wishes he and Cas were alone. If it was just the two of them, there is a literal laundry list of things they could do _with_ each other,_ to_ each other…

"Did you hear what I said, Dean?" Bobby asks gruffly, tearing him out of his reverie.

Dean blinks several times. "What?"

"I asked if you would be willing to answer a few questions for me."

"Sure."

With Cas's arm still slung over his shoulder, he angles his body so that he's facing Sam and Bobby. As much as he preferred their previous position, Cas is still radiating warmth and comfort like a furnace, so he can't complain. "Go on."

"What's your name?"

Sam scoffs. "Bobby, c'mon. He's not that far gone."

"I'm starting with a baseline question, Sam, don't jump down my throat just yet."

"Dean Winchester," Dean replies, fiddling with the black buttons on Cas's trench coat pocket.

"Why are you three here?"

"Venus put a curse on me and we wanted your advice on how to fix it." There are two black buttons on Cas's left pocket, one slightly larger than the other. It's possible that it was a stylistic liberty taken by the designer, but it's far more likely that it's just Cas's attempt at repairing his own clothes.

"How do you feel about the curse?"

"It gives me a rush whenever I see Cas," Dean answers honestly. "And I love it. It's like being drunk but without the hangover or regret."

"He seems pretty coherent," Sam mumbles to himself, jotting down notes like some kind of head shrink. "Full sentences, functioning logic, ability to draw comparisons…"

"Sam, you're so smart," Dean sighs, leaning back against Cas's arm. "And, Bobby, you're so patient and helpful. And, Cas, you're perfect. God, I just love you guys."

Bobby clears his throat. "Mind answering one more question?"

"I don't mind," Dean says amenably.

Bobby glances at Sam then back at Dean. "Tell me: do you want the bug removed?"

Dean gets the impression that this is an important question, because all eyes in the room immediately turn to him, waiting for his answer.

He weighs his options. If the bug is removed, he'll no longer feel as if he's on cloud nine whenever Cas is in the room, and his world won't be colored in harmony and sweetness. Some distant part of his mind reminds him that this bug is the product of an evil goddess's ire, and keeping it on his body for longer than necessary will undoubtedly lead to some kind of health or mental issue—however, these thoughts are buried so far beneath the thick fog of the curse that Dean can barely register them. The only thing resting on the forefront of his mind is how delightful it feels to have Cas so close to him 24/7, and how absolutely dreadful it would be to lose that. So what if the thing that prompted this series of events started out as a curse? So what if the beetle on his back came from a pissed off Roman goddess? So what if there are a million different reasons why he should be desperately trying to get this thing off of his body as soon as possible? The only thing that matters is maintaining this feeling of complete and utter contentment.

Being a hunter and living a barren life filled with endless tragedy and loss have prevented Dean from ever experiencing true happiness. Now, he can't feel anything _but_ happiness. Admittedly, there is a price for that mental peace, but Dean is fairly sure he's willing to pay it. Doesn't he deserve to be content at this point? Hasn't he gone through enough hardships for a lifetime? What's wrong with just snuggling close to his guardian angel and ignoring his problems? Why can't he just recline back into Bobby's couch and forget the world for a little while? Is it such a crime for Dean Winchester to take a break from his constant mental angst? Is it immoral for him to want a little peace of mind?

"Dean," Cas says, pulling him from his inner monologue. His rich, deep voice settles over Dean like a heavy blanket and Dean instinctively curls towards the sound.

"I don't want to remove it," he says with a pout, leaning his head fully on Cas's shoulder. "It makes me feel happy and I like feeling happy."

"Dean…"

"Cas, I just—" Dean freezes, choked on the word. All at once, a cold, jarring flood of awareness crashes over him, thrusting him harshly back into reality. In succession, his pupils shrink to a normal size, his heart stops pattering excitedly in his chest, the warm haze of ignorant bliss burns from his mind like fog in the sunlight, and his vision sharpens with newfound alertness.

He is suddenly all too aware of his proximity to Cas.

"Sorry," he blurts out, scrambling to the other side of the sofa like there are hellhounds at his heels. He tries to ignore the residual warmth emanating from his side and folds his arms protectively over his chest. "I'm, uh, back I guess."

"How do you feel, man?" Sam asks cautiously. Bobby stares at him with an equally wary look on his face.

General discombobulation aside, Dean can't understand why the sensations of the curse still seem to be in his system. Despite the fact that his 'episode' is over, he still finds himself wracked with the strange, irrepressible urge to move closer to Cas. His hands itch to grab the material of the angel's coat and pull him closer, and his entire body feels cold now that there is so much distance between them. Why the hell does he still feel like this? Shouldn't these impulses have dissipated already? _Why are they lingering?_

"I'm—good. Well, _okay_ would probably be a more accurate description," he admits, running a hand over his face. "I feel kind of drained, though, like I just did a million things in the span of an hour. And my head still hurts a little."

"Would you like me to heal that, Dean?" Cas offers kindly. There's nothing about the angel's demeanor that suggests he has any idea how shaken Dean is by what just happened (namely, the fact that clinging to Cas feels like the most natural thing in the world, even without the spell clouding his judgement), but Dean recoils from his touch anyway.

"I'm fine," he says hastily, scooting even further back on the sofa. "It'll go away in a minute."

Cas blinks several times and drops his hand, looking both puzzled and hurt. "Okay."

There's a beat of awkward silence before Sam loudly clears his throat. "Right, well, I officially apologize for what I said earlier about the curse, Dean."

"What did you say?" Cas asks.

Dean stares pointedly at Sam, hoping his brother has enough tact to avoid mentioning his bullshit theory in front of Castiel. The last thing he needs is for Cas to start innocently asking Sam why he thinks Dean's in love with him.

"Uh," Sam catches Dean's eye and gets the message, "I just said maybe it's been a good thing for Dean. It's helped him open up more with me and…Bobby."

Bobby gives Sam a weird look. "The hell are you on about, boy? Dean's been cursed by a vengeful goddess and you're trying to talk about how it's helping him _express himself_? Bull shit."

"Ha!" Dean cries, pointing at Sam. "What did I tell you?!"

"Yeah, okay, I get it!" Sam says, putting his hands up in surrender. "I didn't realize how dire the side effects would be, I take back what I said."

"Good. Now you can stop spouting crap about how this freaking spell is 'helping me'," Dean says firmly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Fair enough," Sam concedes.

Dean turns to Bobby. "So what's the solution here, Bobby? How do we fix this?"

Bobby tugs down the bill of his hat in frustration and sighs. "I wish I had something to tell you, Dean, but the fact of the matter is, there_ is_ no solution. As least no recorded solution. Every poor bastard who's had this bug either died or lived the rest of his life under its spell. No one's successfully gotten rid of the curse."

"Well, that's just great," Dean snaps, dragging a frustrated hand through his hair. "So basically you're telling me I can either kick the bucket or live happily ever after with my head in the freaking clouds._ Awesome."_

"Listen, Dean, Sam, I hate to tell you this, but the only solution I can think of is, well, _talking _to her."

Both Dean and Sam whip their heads up to stare at Bobby. _"What?"_

"I know, I know, it sounds nuts, but think about it. You two have no way to kill her and the spell books that have information on her weaknesses are filled with holes. Dean, the time between your little episodes is getting shorter and shorter so we can't waste time sitting around trying to think up a battle plan. As much as I hate to say it, talking to Venus is the only option we have right now, boys."

"Cas?" Dean says, in a last ditch attempt to find a better answer. "Can you think of any alternatives?"

"No," Cas says with a defeated sigh. "I'm afraid Bobby is right. We have no weapons to use against her, our knowledge is flawed, and her magic predates even my existence. Our only option at this point is speaking with her."

"Great," Dean groans, dropping his head back into his hands. "I'm sure she'll be _overjoyed_ to see us again."

* * *

"So where do we go now?" Dean asks, jamming the key in the Impala's ignition. "We have no idea where she's going next and we sure as hell can't just drive around the country all night, hoping she pops up."

"I know," Sam says, drumming his fingertips on his knee. "Why don't we stop somewhere for a bite and try to get our bearings? We can do research and figure out our game plan over some grub."

That plan sounds as good as any, so Dean decides to go along with it. "Cas, you good with that?" he asks, glancing at the angel in the rearview mirror. In the backseat, Cas's hands are carefully folded in his lap and his forehead is pressed against the window, his half-lidded blue eyes gazing unseeingly at the dirt and brush outside. He looks thoughtful and a little sad, and it takes all of Dean's willpower to avoid asking Cas if he feels okay. That might come across as fussy and clingy, and that's the last impression he wants to make right now.

"Yes, I am good with that," he replies neutrally.

"Okay." Dean nods, turning the key.

…

Dean manages to maintain his mental sobriety for the entire ride away from Bobby's, but the moment they pass over the threshold of Mama Jules's Diner, a huge wave of love and affection crashes over him like a flood and nearly knocks him off his feet.

"Cas, come here, angel," he babbles, reaching out and grabbing the sleeve of Cas's trench coat.

Cas looks momentarily surprised, then inordinately pleased. But before Dean has the chance to analyze either expression, the angel's features have already settled back into their usual mild state.

"Okay, Dean," Cas says obligingly, allowing himself to be pulled tight against Dean's side.

Several layers beneath the curse where his coherent thoughts reside, Dean realizes that he's _relieved_ that the spell kicked in again. Now, he can hang all over Cas and spout lovey-dovey nonsense at him with no shame or reservations. He can hold Cas's hand and tell him he's pretty and there's nothing anyone can say because Dean is not doing it of his own accord—or at least that's what he tells himself.

"Jeez, it started up _again_?" Sam says, as they make their way to their table.

Cas pulls out a chair for Dean, an imperceptible gleam of happiness dancing behind his irises. "Yes, it appears so."

Sam sighs long-sufferingly and unfolds his menu. "Then this is gonna be a _long_ meal."

…

Their waitress is tall, curvy, and blonde, and the looks she keeps giving Dean are positively pornographic. If this were any other day, Dean would be thanking the gods for the predatory glances she keeps sending his way, but as it stands, he hardly notices because he's far too busy staring at Cas.

"Need a refill on that coffee, honey?" she asks in a faintly southern accent. Her blue eyes are sparkling like jewels and her mouth is curled in a flirtatious smirk. "Or maybe another slice of pie? Our cinnamon apple is great when you're craving something _sweet."_

"No thanks, I'm good," Dean replies distractedly, continuing to play with Cas's hands. The angel's fingers are long, elegant, and so lovely that they deserve their own museum exhibit.

"You sure about that, darlin'?" she drawls, her eyelashes fluttering. "What about some cherry pie, then? A big strong man like you deserves a treat once in a while."

"No thanks," Dean says blandly, not even bothering to look her way.

Fascinated, he lines up his and Cas's palms and intertwines their fingers, delighted by the feeling of skin against skin. He leans in. "Cas, did you know your hands are the same size as mine?"

"Yes, I knew that," Cas replies, gazing thoughtfully at their joined hands. "I know everything about you, Dean."

Annoyed at being ignored, the waitress glares at the pair of them and places a hand on her hip, fuming in silent anger.

"Um, I'll have some of that cherry pie," Sam offers, trying to break the awkward silence. "And a refill would be great." He forces a friendly smile and holds out his mug.

Sullenly, she scribbles down his order. "I'll be back with the coffee in a bit," she snaps, giving their table one final glare before turning on her heel and leaving.

Sam watches her go, then looks back at Dean and Castiel with an exasperated expression. "Okay, Dean, do you think you could turn it down, like, seven notches?"

"Hm?" Dean asks, running his thumb over the back of Cas's knuckles. Cas watches Dean's ministrations with a content expression and makes no move to stop him.

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose to ward off his impending migraine. "Dean, are you even listening to me right now?"

"No," Dean replies honestly. He picks up Cas's arm and loops it over his shoulder, then scoots over and cuddles into his side. Castiel allows this without complaint, so Dean takes that as an invitation to move even closer. "You're warm," he mumbles into Cas's neck.

"Yes," Cas agrees. "98.6 degrees Fahrenheit to be exact."

Sam makes a noise of frustration. "Dean, you're useless right now." He turns to Castiel. "Which means it's just me and you, now, Cas."

"Yes."

"You ready to start strategizing?"

"I am," Cas nods. Absentmindedly, he tightens his grip on Dean's shoulder. "I suppose we should start with figuring out where Venus's next target will be. As Bobby told us, our only option is to simply speak with her and try to glean whatever information we can. From the limited knowledge I have of the goddess, she is quite fond of games."

"Games?" Sam repeats with a frown. "What, like monopoly or something?"

"I wish," Cas grimaces. "I meant things more along the lines of _mental manipulation_. She rarely enjoys simply killing her victims. As you can see—" Cas glances at Dean "—she prefers to put them under mental and emotional duress before she destroys them. I believe she finds it far more amusing when her revenge is drawn out."

"Right. And do you see any way we could possibly use that to our advantage?"

"Perhaps," Cas muses. "Right now, here is what we know: she was not pleased with the two of you for attempting to destroy her, but she was also not enraged enough to actually kill Dean. That means one of two things. One, she thought it would be amusing to give Dean a slow, painful demise or, two, she planted the bug on Dean with the knowledge that he would eventually be forced to return to her and ask for a cure. If the former is true, she will most likely be impossible to locate. If the latter is true, however, she wants to be found." Cas levels Sam with a serious look. "And if she wants to be found, that means she's willing to negotiate."

Sam leans in on his elbows. "Negotiate?"

"Yes," Cas nods. "Venus clearly had a reason for keeping Dean alive. I can't imagine why she chose to do so, but I'm sure whatever it is will be enough to prompt her to consider making a deal with you two. We want to free Dean from this curse, and she wants something that she can apparently only get from Dean. Contrary to what you may think, Sam, we are not going into this blind. We have a very important bargaining chip on our hands that doubly serves an immunity."

"Me?" Dean asks lazily, running his fingers idly over Cas's upward facing palm.

"Yes," Cas agrees, squeezing Dean's shoulder. "You."

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading, guys! Feedback would be immensely appreciated (knowing what you guys are expecting or what you think helps with the writing process so much) so please don't hesitate to leave a comment! xoxo **


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